Phencyclidine
by emedealer
Summary: Set after The Sign of Three: John finds Sherlock in crack house a month after the wedding, riddled with self-loathing and loneliness. What if when Sherlock is high, emotions are heightened instead of the normal downfall? When he inflicts self-harm to the point of damaging a vital organ, the only solution is organ replacement from a blood relative. Possible sherlolly
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Sherlock's eyes flew open at the sudden jolt of his shoulder, hazy vision landing on a the furious gaze of John Watson, whose expression could only held a look of sullen disappointment.

"Get up, Sherlock. We're leaving."

John looked almost amusingly out of place in the dark smoke clouded room. Unable to comprehend past the barrier that the drugs had built in his mind, Sherlock only stared blankly at the ceiling. John's futile attempts at rousing him went ignored, shaking him by the shoulders and shouting his name repeatedly, until a strong blow to his temple sent him falling from the torn couch cushions onto a carpeted floor.

"John." He breathed, raising himself up into sitting position with a throbbing in his right temple to find the fuming doctor standing before him.

Fists clenched at his sides, John almost turned away before whispering through clenched teeth:

"I wanted to be wrong. I didn't want it to be you lying there-" he paused, containing his ever growing anger and sense of defeat.

Without a word, he held out his hand to the consulting detective, still crumpled on the ground in a stupor, only recognizable by the dark curls that cascaded over his forehead, and the piercing blue gaze he held with the doctor.

"John." Sherlock repeated as his vision finally steadied, "Why are you here?" His speech slurred and shook embarrassingly, betrayed by his own mind.

"No. Come on. Get up. We have to get you out of here."

Ignoring the offered hand, Sherlock groaned as he stumbled to his feet, only to fall back into a sitting position on the foul smelling couch with a sigh.

"I'm not leaving." He exhaled "I suggest you get back to Mary. You've obviously come to neglect her in this time when she needs you most."

John stood his ground, affected by the pointed words but nonetheless choosing to stay.

"Mary-" He stopped, staring hard into Sherlock's cold gaze for a moment before continuing. "Mary is fine. You, on the other hand, are not."

"Am I not?" Sherlock repelled back with narrowed eyes.

"No, your not. For God's sake, Sherlock, look at you!" John shot back gesturing pointedly to his splayed form on the couch.

Sherlock was after all, in a state that could only be described as utterly broken. He was remarkably thinner, pale chest and ribs visible through his oversized unbuttoned shirt, paired with a set of grungy sweatpants. His curls plastered over his forehead into his eyes, whose icy blue hew had grown significantly colder since the wedding. A layer of stubble lined his features, under his cheekbones, which had sharpened due to the excessive weight loss.

His expression softened at the accusation, momentarily lowering the wall he had been so careful to build in order to shield his emotions, the despair he had accumulated from two years banished from the comfort of those he loved.

In the past months of his return he had actually grown to be fond of Mary. Happy that she had found John, fixed his aching heart and claimed it through her love and affection. He found though, that this meant the end of an era. The age of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had ended, and had begun the Watson family. He would not have considered stooping to this level had he felt there was a place for himself, anywhere in the lives of the Watson's or those around him.

Realizing this, he left John and Mary's wedding early, resolving to take a cab to an all too familiar place. Not what you would call a popular tourist destination. No, in fact it rested in the outskirts of London, east end. The slums and rookeries, high on crime and an array of recreational drugs. He told the cabbie to stop in front of familiar grungy house. No doubt the inhabitance would recognize him. That is if they were there at all.

The house was as desolate as the surrounding spirit of the area. At least it looked that way, in the dark of the night with its broken windows and foundation cracks. Sherlock paid the cabbie and stepped from the car, knowing exactly what this meant, what his next decision would do to him as a man.

As if he could call himself one after this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello lovelies! I give credit where credit is due. This is actually an idea on of my best friend had and I promised her I would write it.. This is my first fanfic so I would love to hear some reviews *hint hint* ;)**

**I do NOT own any of these characters, ALL credits go to the writers of the show and the orginal stories**

Chapter 2

Sherlock stepped through the threshold, not bothering to knock, letting the door creak as he strode down the narrow hallway with his hands in his coat pockets.

The sound of muffled voices and laughter grew louder as he stepped closer to the door at the end of the hallway. A familiar smell drifted from all corners of the house, embedded in the chipped wallpaper and the carpet, only growing stronger as he closed in on the door.

He gripped the handle, briefly pausing before letting it open. The room turned silent, eyes turned to take in the dark figure looming in the doorway.

He stepped in the room, expressionless, taking in the sight before him as though he had just returned home from a long holiday.

Before him were a group of three, unabashedly repellent, lowlife men sitting on grungy furniture around the living space. Each of them with at least one woman hanging off their arm, sensually stroking their biceps and hair, glaze eyed and would look completely dead, had they not been flaunting their bodies in the haze of drug induced arousal.

Sherlock immediately recognized one of the men, the man with the ginger beard and hooded eyelids sitting on the far right of the dim room, a brunette whispering in his ear.

He eyed Sherlock groggily before it clicked. He hurriedly shushed the woman and stood up, swaying on the spot.

"It's not Sherlock bloody Holmes!" He rang joyfully

"Hello, Anthony."

The man named Anthony widely grinned and stumbled over to the new arrival as the others watched with as much interest as they could manage.

Anthony immediately embracing him in a broad hug, which Sherlock hardly returned.

Anthony had been Sherlock's only confidant back in his uni days, providing him with whatever he needed to sedate the ever raging thoughts.

After a colorfully spoken intervention from his brother and three months in a posh rehab facility, He resolved to visiting only from time to time, completely stopping after he'd started assisting Scotland Yard.

Anthony pulled back, still bearing the grin.

"I heard you came back from the dead! Long time, no see, eh? How long's it been? ...five years?"

"Six." Sherlock corrected absentmindedly, eyes locked on the coffee table in the center of the room.

Anthony followed his gaze, and incredibly, broadened his devilish smile. He willingly threw his arm over Sherlocks shoulder, who cringed at the contact.

"What brings you by, mate?"

"I need some."

"What would that be?"

"You know what."

Anthony huffed pleasantly, patting Sherlock on the shoulder and made his way to the to the door leading to the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home, mate." He spoke through a grin before disappearing into the other room.

Sherlock stood watching as one of the two sitting men nudged a deranged woman to her feet, pushing her towards Sherlock.

She slowly made her way around him, running her fingers through his soft curls before shrugging his coat off his shoulders and onto the floor.

She proceeded to remove his scarf, tie, and jacket, not hesitating to undo the first few buttons of his white dress shirt. Brushing her fingernails softly down the nape of his neck causing him to exhale shakily,

she took him by the hand, gently pulling him towards the couch until she pushed him to sit on the rough exterior.

Just as she joined him by his side, Anthony appeared in the doorway again. Now in possession of a syringe filled with a watery solution.

"Glad to have you back." He flashed a smile in Sherlocks direction before returning his gaze to the syringe.

"Just like old times."

Sherlock sat uncomfortable and silent in his seat, his only focus on the syringe in the other man's hands.

Anthony chuckled softly as he made his way over to Sherlock, taking to sit in front of him on the littered coffee table.

He held out the needle, gesturing for Sherlock to take it. Their eyes locked in silence for no more than a few seconds before Sherlock took the offer.

"Phencyclidine."

Anthony said quietly as Sherlock undid his sleeve cuff and rolled it up, revealing his forearm and the prominent veins contrasting the pale skin.

The next hour or so passed in silence, as for the first time in years, Sherlock felt comfortably numb. The solution washed through his veins, ridding him of all the negativity, all the loneliness that had been bearing down on him mercilessly. Everything needed to stay as it was, in that moment. He couldn't bear to think of the depression of falling out of this numbness.

But eventually he did, and he awoke to another full syringe waiting on for him on the coffee table.

A month passed this way.

An month riddled with hit after hit of his choice sedative. Meaningless sex with which ever woman would offer up herself to him. All of this happening over and over again until he was completely wasted away. Nothing but a man caught in his own trap.

He had walked into this room a month ago knowing that he would walk out, if at all, a different man.

"This is what you asked for." He thought to himself as he lie there in his own filth.

"You wanted this."

And then john found him. The man who had saved him countless times, in so many ways, had come for him.

It took everything he had to resist the urge to beg John to take him away from this place. He was prisoner here in his own mind, held by the chains of addiction and need.

And now john stood in front of him, trying to convince him of what he already knew.


	3. Chapter 3

**I do not own any of the characters or the story. ALL credits go to the writers of the show and the original stories.**

Chapter 3

_"For God's sake, Sherlock! Look at you_!"

John stood in front of a man, his best friend. His best friend who had a month ago touched the hearts of all his friends and family with a moving speech at his and Mary's wedding.

Today he was looking at a man he didn't even recognize. This person looked eaten alive by addiction, torn apart from being wasted and used for days on end.

He let out a strained breath,

Containing his anger with all he the energy had left in him. And he had a right to be angry.

"You are coming back with me. I don't care what you have to say. We need you back."

"What for?" Sherlock inquired darkly. "Does Mary want to fill me in on the highlights of your sex holiday? Perhaps she can't think of a proper baby name. I'd say "Hamish" but the child would be taunted it's entire life-"

John lunged forward, grabbing Sherlock by his shirt collar and pulled him forward properly, trembling with unrequited rage.

"One more word, Sherlock, and I promise you the whole of Scotland Yard will be at this house in less than five minutes."

Dropping Sherlock's almost limp form back on the couch cushions, John broadened his stance, bearing a warning look at his former flat mate.

They both knew how much the entirety of Lestrade's division would jump at the chance to see Sherlock in this state.

John once again offered to help Sherlock up. The dazed detective took to alternating quizzical glances from John to his outstretched hand.

"You know I could just drag you out of here. I have had to do that once or twice, haven't I?"

Sherlock smirked at the memory. Almost taking to laugh before a wave of memories suddenly flashed through his mind, which had begun to grow clearer as he rode out his last high.

Trying to block the facade of thoughts beginning to trace their way back into his line of sight, Sherlock moaned painfully, resting his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He shut his eyes tightly as if to block out a harsh light, blinded by the familiar intricacy of his mind.

He begun to inhale and exhale shakily, unevenly. John knowingly crouched down on his feet, grabbing Sherlock's hunched shoulder.

"Sherlock."

His rapid heartbeat quickened, thumping painfully in his chest before it slowly died down again. His breathing eventually steadied, but he kept his head bent into his palms in the aftershock.

"Let's go." John spoke quietly, his hand still firmly on Sherlock's shoulder for support.

And finally, as tears threatened, brimming in Sherlock's eyes, he nodded in surrender.

John huffed a sigh of relief as he stood up again, carefully pulling Sherlock to his feet as he did so.

Sherlock stood unsteadily swaying on the spot. He opened eyes, and focused on the door. Determined, he stumbled forward, only crossing a few feet before his legs buckled beneath him.

John rushed to catch him mid-fall. Sherlock groaned as John slowly brought them both to standing again. He placed Sherlock's arm over his own shoulder, supporting the taller man with his own weight.

They emerged from the house together, stumbling along slowly towards the cabbie john had held for them.

Sherlock inhaled the first breath of fresh air through his lungs in what felt more like a lifetime than a mere month. The sun shown brightly on his pale face as a cool breeze ruffled his dark curls.

Everything on the outside, the natural light, the spaciousness, held a striking contrast to the dimly lit, oxygen deprived prison he had voluntarily been trapped in for weeks.

John helped Sherlock into the car, circling around the other side to get in himself.

"221B Baker Street." John told the cabbie, who sped off in an instant, apparently eager to get out of the area.

The ride was spent in silence. Neither man knew what to say, or ask. So unusual for the two of them that the tension rose to an almost unbearable level.

Sherlock stared straight forward as John hesitantly broke the silence.

"Your probably wondering how I found you."

Sherlock snorted unpleasantly.

"Anyone can trace a phone signal."

John sighed hastily, confining his annoyance. "And this is the second time I've saved your life that way."

A long while passed in silence before John spoke up again.

"You know, we're not leaving you alone Sherlock. Everyone is here for you when you need it."

Sherlock remained unresponsive, eyes still trained on the leather back of the front seat.

"We've found a flat mate for you." John quietly added.

Sherlock's eyes turned to john in an instant, narrowly searching his vacant expression.

"What?"

"It's only temporary, Sherlock. Just for moral support-"

"Who is it?"

"We just thought-"

"John."

John sighed, forcing out a huffed breath.

"Molly Hooper."


	4. Chapter 4

**I do Not own any of the characters. ALL credits go to the writers of the show and the original stories.**

Chapter 4

_"Molly Hooper." _

John turned to register Sherlock's reaction, still finding him to be visually shocking in his current state of dress and grooming. Of course he could smell it off him, but he would never grow accustomed to how much the substance abuse had changed his physical appearance.

Without thinking, John had expected to turn and see the consulting detective as he had always been. The signature bellstaf coat and scarf, sitting up straight and alert with a knowing smirk on his face.

Instead he was reminded of his current state.

Sherlock stared sharply at John from where he sat slumped down in his seat. His eyes narrowed in question as he still struggled to put his thoughts together.

Several minutes passed, Sherlock sat still, eyes now watching the late morning hustle of the city pass by through the car window.

John cleared his throat.

"Sherlock."

He answered almost instantly, eyes still glued to the outside.

"I assume the wedding is off then."

"Yes, she broke it off a few weeks ago."

"And she's at Baker Street now." It wasn't a question.

"She moved in after we called."

"When did you call her?"

"About an hour after I found your location."

Sherlock swung around to find john attempting to suppress a smile.

"How long have you known where I was?"

"Since last night."

Sherlock took several minutes to process the information. Obviously John and Mary already had this planned. They were playing matchmaker for their own amusement, and his decent into drug use was the perfect opportunity to launch their plan. Calling the sad little pathologist to bring him back to moral consciousness.

The cabbie turned onto Baker Street, coming to a stop in front of the familiar doorstep.

John made to leave, paying the cabbie. He paused to before exiting the car.

"You ready?"

Sherlock snorted in response.

"Of course I am." He shot up from the car, slamming the door behind him.

They approached the black door with the gold 221B plated on the woodwork. Sherlock's attempt to throw open the door was blocked by John's hand pulling it closed again. Sherlock eyed John in annoyance.

"You need to understand something about Molly."

Sherlock's eyebrows raised in question. He gestured mockingly for john to continue.

John sighed angrily before proceeding.

"She's not here because she wants to be, Sherlock. The past few weeks have been absolute hell for her, and hearing about your current situation may have been the tipping point for her."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean she's angry. At you."

Sherlock was taken aback. "She has no right to be."

John stepped back, mouth gaping in disbelief.

"She absolutely does.

Sherlock huffed furiously before storming through the door, his unbuttoned shirt flailing behind him. He took to running up the steps to his flat, fully intending to convince Molly to leave with what ever was needed to be said.

He reached the top, gasping for breathe.

"Molly?" He panted as he walked through the open doorway.

Instead of his mousy pathologist, there stood his landlady, who jumped at the sight of him.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She timidly spoke as she took in his appearance. She raised a quivering hand to her cheek as he walked by, submissively waving a hello.

Sherlock slumped down into his chair, hands clamped on the arm rests. Mrs. Hudson stood with an unwavering gaze, unsure of whether to stay or leave. John entered the room, only adding to the uncomfortable silence that was already just as unbearable with two people. It was then that the sound of running water became apparent from the hallway leading to Sherlock's bedroom.

"Molly's in the shower."

Mrs. Hudson quickly announced.

"I guessed as much." Sherlock murmured as he arose from his seat, advancing to the kitchen.

Mrs. Hudson cringed as he passed closely by her.

He flung open the refrigerator, perusing mindlessly until he decided on a previously opened milk box. He took a long swig before returning it to its place.

The sound of running water from the shower stilled, sending a wave of anxiety coursing through Sherlock's veins. Why was he nervous? He was never nervous. Especially about Molly.

He shut the refrigerator, quickly hurrying back to the living room where John and Mrs. Hudson were quietly conversing about him no doubt.

He buttoned his shirt in a feeble attempt to look presentable before taking to lounge comfortably in his chair, which faced the hallway where molly would soon emerge from the bath.

Not a moment later, the door opened to reveal Molly wrapped in a white towel, running her fingers through the wet strands of hair surrounding her face. She strode barefoot down the hall, beads of water still covered her pale shoulders and calves.

She emitted a small gasp as she realized she was no longer alone in the flat, stopping in her tracks completely when she registered Sherlock's presence in the room, eyes fixed on her from where he sat.

"Hello Molly."


	5. Chapter 5

**I do NOT own any of the characters. ALL credits go to the writers of the show and the original stories.**

Chapter 5

She stood frozen on the spot, unable to move due to the wave of shock and embarrassment that echoed through her because yes, she was now standing in the middle of 221B wrapped in nothing but a towel in the presence of both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

John looked equally shocked, and she silently thanked him for looking away instantly in embarrassment. Sherlock, on the other hand, stared with interest. His eyes glided over her form, taking to search her face as well. Mrs. Hudson stared sympathetically from where she stood.

Molly's mouth opened and closed repeatedly, blinking several times until finally she could think of something, anything to say.

"You're back. Oh, um.. I'm not quite dressed. I'll just be upst-"

"SHERLOCK HOLMES!"

A mans voice boomed from the downstairs as the front door was slammed shut. Loud footsteps echoed quickly up the steps as the door swung open, revealing Mycroft Holmes gasping for breath as he clung onto the doorframe.

"For God's sake." John sighed as he went to help the new arrival into the room, pointing towards his vacant chair.

Mycroft caught sight of Molly as he passed by, giving her a once over followed by an equally quizzical and disgusted glance. She could only imagine his deductions.

He did his best to remain in composure as he took the seat, though it was obvious that he was practically seething.

"Brother, mine" he panted, "What have you been up to?"

The younger of the two gave a warning look, quickly growing livid with annoyance.

"Nothing out of the ordinary, evidently." Mycroft finished dryly.

Sherlock inhaled slowly, carefully preserving what little resistance he had left to fatally injuring his older brother. He glanced at Molly, still frozen where she stood. She met his blue eyes with her widening brown ones, pleading with him not to do anything stupid.

"Well if your not going to speak.." Mycroft sneered, tearing him from his thoughts.

"Let's play deductions."

Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, bringing his palms together in front of his lips, daring his brother to continue.

"Go on, then."

Mycroft hesitated before beginning his assessment.

"Your outward appearance suggests you have neglected your personal needs in every way possible. But you always need something, don't you? Your past.. habits cause me to suspect that this is nothing but a mere relapse into those addictions. At least I would assume so, had you not gone back so suddenly after years of staying clean. From what I recall you saying, you would return to clear your head. And why should it be different this time? Perhaps the wedding of your best friend? Perhaps the return to exile afterward."

"I've never been in exile."

"Haven't you? Maybe your right. You obviously don't know how to handle it." He droned out slowly, giving him a glance up and down.

"And I should mention the painfully obvious fact of your and Ms. Hooper's apparent sexual relationship."

Molly's breath hitched in her throat. She wanted to crawl under a rock and die. That would surly be better than this.

Sherlock's eyes momentarily widened before narrowing pointedly at his brother's smirk.

"We both know that's not true."

"I would say so." Mycroft argued with a grin.

" I walk into your flat, seeing her in her current predicament with you ogling at her like she's something to eat."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Sherlock replied bluntly. "But if that's what you fantasize about regularly-"

"Stop!" Molly's small outburst turned all eyes in her direction. She could feel her face heating up as she wrapped the towel tighter around her frame.

"You should both be ashamed of yourselves."

Sherlock's eyes remained steady on her, knowing how much courage it took for her to speak out at all, much more in her current state of undress. Not to mention, in the the middle of a row with he and Mycroft.

"For the record," she added in a shaking voice.

"I have never slept with Sherlock Holmes. Nor would I ever take advantage of him in any way while he's.. Like this."

She nodded towards him stiffly, keeping her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Excuse me."

She took to running up the steps to John's old bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Silence echoed through the flat. Nobody knew what to say, how to defuse the tension.

Sherlock suddenly shot up from his chair, making for the front door.

He flung it open furiously, turning to stare pointedly at his brother.

"Get out." He said dangerously.

Mycroft calmly arose from his seat, making his way back to the door in a much cooler fashion then he had came.

John and Mrs. Hudson, the poor, innocent bystanders, moved to exit the room as well.

"I'll come by later to check up on you both." John mumbled quickly before leaving, Mrs. Hudson quick at his heels.

Mycroft stopped in front of the door, returning the furious gaze his brother was paying him. Sherlock only looked colder in this light, the drugged haze he was sporting affected his emotions, pressuring his bottled aggression further.

"Do be careful with your new flat mate, little brother."

Sherlock didn't hesitate to shove Mycroft through the open door, slamming it shut with a loud bang.

He leant back on the wall, exhaling softly with closed eyes. Finally alone in his flat, he took a moment to really observe the room. He found relief in knowing that everything was exactly as he left it. At least Molly hadn't acted as though the place was hers.

It was then that he remembered that she was currently upstairs, still furious with him for at least two reasons now. Dropping off the face of the earth to become a junky, and encouraging the argument about Mycroft's false deduction of their suspected sexual relationship.

He wandered around the corner, taking a look up the set of stairs leading to the closed bedroom door. His feet moved forward, climbing up the steps. He felt inclined to at least say something through his still partly clouded thoughts.

He staggered up the final step, roughly catching himself on doorknob. Her small intake of breath could be heard from the other side.

The door was pulled open before he had a chance to speak. Molly stood in the doorway, now dressed in a cream colored jumper covered in yellow polka dots, with a simple pair of jeans.

"Sherlock." She uttered timidly, weighing his expression, which looked pained.

"I just needed to.." His voice was raspy and sullen, looking as though he would faint any second.

"Come in." She stepped aside for him to enter. He gratefully followed suit, shutting the door behind him.

**Like it? Hate it? Tell me what you think :) I love reviews!**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

She took one look at him, and opted to take the wooden desk chair for herself, leaving him to sit on the bed if he desired it. He eyed her choice in the seating arrangement before hesitantly taking to sit on the edge of the mattress, now covered in a white duvet dotted with blue daisies. The springs creaked as he sunk down it, breaking the mutual silence between them.

Although Molly knew very well what Sherlock had been doing, she felt the need to ask him. She hoped he would tell her the truth, but mostly she wanted to understand his reasons behind it. He stared at her expectantly, waiting for her to say something. She had finally built up the courage when he interrupted her thoughts.

"Why are you here?"

She had expected to be the first one to speak, and in all honesty she was a bit taken aback by his question. He didn't usually ask questions if he was able to deduce the answer, which Molly thought was fairly obvious.

"I want to help you." She replied quietly.

"You're angry with me."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because you're so much better than this!" She exclaimed in sullen amusement.

"You know, I thought I'd seen you at your worst when you slapped yourself in the face during the best man speech."

She couldn't help but grin at the deep laughter that escaped Sherlock's lips, displaying that smile that lit up his entire face.

"I'll admit, that was not one of my proudest moments."

He smiled at the memory, remembering that day, the wedding. Not as boring as he had thought it would be. His heart fell when he thought about the decision he made that night, ultimately bringing him to his current state of physical and mental instability.

"Neither is this." Molly said softly.

He exhaled in defeat, leaning down to rest his head in his hands.

"What do you want me to do?"

He asked, begging for an answer as he raised his eyes to hers to find one.

She searched for one as well, raking her eyes over his broken form, seeing the emptiness that had been drowning him since she had last seen him leaving the wedding.

"Don't go back."

"I never want to," He quickly stated, his eyes turned distant.

"But I always.."

"You don't have to."

He shook his head menacingly, staring down at his hands for a long while. Molly stayed, watching him vainly attempt to sort out his muffled thoughts.

She stood up from her chair, catching his attention immediately.

"We're going to get you better."

She headed for the door, sherlock watching intently as she passed by. Her hand was gripping the doorknob when he finally stopped her.

"Molly," he croaked almost inaudibly.

She turned to see him standing now, facing her and the door.

He didn't look like himself. His hair disheveled, falling over his eyes. They looked cold and bearen, dark circles deepening under the sharp blue irises and reddened whites of his eyes.

The corners of his mouth were slightly down-turned, trembling with words he didn't know how to say, and Molly knew they would remain unsaid.

"I don't know what to do." He finally breathed, admitting a fault he never wanted to confess.

She hesitated, attempting to understand what he needed, right then. She smiled softly, staying strong for him with a calm expression.

"Let's start with a shower."

She opened the door, descending the steps with Sherlock following close behind. Sending him off to the bath, she gathered her purse and coat.

Sherlock stuck his head out of the bathroom door.

"Where are you going?"

"I've got to run to the grocery store." She replied, wrapping a red scarf around her neck.

"I'm not even going to talk about what I found in your fridge last night."

"Wasn't it you who gave me those parts?" He shot back quizzically.

"Yes." She grabbed her key from the table.

"A month ago."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and retreated back into the bathroom, hearing a faint 'I'll see you later' and the click of the front door closing behind Molly.

He proceeded to rid himself of the filthy clothes and step into the searing spray from the shower head. He let the hot water wash over him, rinsing all the grime that had accumulated over the past month. Though it was painful, turning his skin red at the contact, it was cleansing. He inhaled the clean fumes of steam trapped in the shower, standing there for God knows how long. After washing his hair and body, scrubbing till his skin was raw, he shut off the water and stepped out, finally separated from the residue of his mistake at least.

After he dried off, he pulled on his dressing gown, stepping into his own bedroom as he tied it around his waist.

He breathed a sigh of relief, taking in the familiar surroundings of his room.

He willingly sunk down on the cool sheets of his bed, almost instantly falling into a deep, pleasant, but most of all needed sleep.

**Next chapter should be up in a couple of days, and don't forget to R&R! Hold on tight kids, things are about to get angsty.. **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

He slowly returned to consciousness from his sleep, groggily aware of his surroundings. His mind and body ached for a fix, the solution he had come to rely on so desperately. He reached over the edge of the bed to grasp the syringe that had always been waiting for him, only to brush his fingers over the smooth surface of his bedside table. Confused, he raised his head up from the pillows, suddenly aware that he was in fact in his bedroom, no longer in the hazy darkness of the drug den he had so pathetically made a home for himself in.

He groaned sleepily, raising himself off the bed, feeling light headed and weary when he finally stood straight on his feet.

"Molly?" He yawned as he entered the kitchen. A paper bag of take away Chinese food had been set on the counter, along with several grocery bags and Molly's purse.

She had returned not long ago, judging by the heat still radiating off the take away bag at his touch. He wandered into the sitting room, finding her curled up on the sofa, sleeping soundly. He couldn't help the small grin that turned up the corners of his mouth as he stood there, truly seeing her at peace for the first time in his presence. He opted to let her sleep, taking to change into a pair of trousers and a silk black dress shirt.

It was half-seven when Sherlock's phone buzzed loudly on the kitchen counter. He was fully engulfed in the study of the movement of pathogenic bacteria when he looked up from his microscope, finding Lestrade's number lit up on the screen.

He picked up the vibrating phone, hesitating before finally pressing 'Accept' on the fifth ring.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade answered, completely out of breath. "You alright?"

"What's wrong?"

"We've, err.." He struggled to find his words, sounding distracted when he spoke.

"We've got some of our people at the drug den you've been hiding at."

Sherlock's heart sank. It took him only seconds to assume exactly where this was going.

"John gave you the location."

"Yes." Lestrade panted wearily.

"We showed up... They've got a hostage in the house."

"Who is it?"

No answer, only uneven breathing and the sound of muffled voices and police sirens in the background.

"Lestrade, who is the hostage?" He did his best to keep his voice clear and even.

"Where's John?" His voice cracked in betrayal.

The voices in the background suddenly grew louder, triggering the detective inspector to bark several orders directed at his officers. The call then ended abruptly from Lestrade's end.

Sherlock took only seconds to grab what was necessary before racing down the stairs, and throwing open the front door, he noticed the absence of is coat as his forearms and neck were exposed to the cold night air. He had left it at the house when John saved him that morning. Ironically enough, he was returning to save john.

He hailed a cab, roughly giving the address before he was even in the car.

"I'll pay you double if you can get there in ten minutes."

The cabbie willingly sped off, racing through the streets at top speed, every minute growing closer but still not fast enough. Any second, something could go wrong at the house, such as a poorly timed plan of attack by Lestrade's officers. Any wrong move could mean John Watson's life.

Minutes later, the cabbie turned onto the street, now lined with the flashing lights of police cars and dozens of curious onlookers. Mary Watson stood next to an officer attempting to comfort her

as she shook through her frightened sobs. As the car slowed, Sherlock threw a few fifty pound notes into the front seat and escaped through the door before it even rolled to a complete stop.

He ran, ducking under the police tape, flying past the surrounding officers who protested as soon as they saw him. He met the door, entering quickly and slamming it behind him.

There was silence now. He faced the familiar dark hallway that had ultimately led to his misery. He would have never wanted to walk it again, would have refrained from the temptation for a lifetime had his best friend not been on the other side of that door at the end of the hall with a gun held to his head.

Sherlock didn't take his steps slowly this time, striding forward in determination as he reached the final destination.

The image that confronted his vision when he flung open the door would forever remain embedded in his mind.

John Watson, ankles and wrists tied to a wooden chair in the center of the room, gagged with a cloth. He cringed with pain as Anthony injected a shot of phencyclidine into a vein on his forearm.

John lifted his eyelids with great effort as Anthony raised up as well, both spotting the familiar figure in the doorway that gazed down on them in horror. Anthony removed the needle from John's arm causing him to emit a painful groan.

He stood up straight, speaking through a false grin.

"Where'd you run off to, mate? Didn't think you would just up and leave us after everything we've given you."

Disregarding the pointed words, Sherlock moved to kneel in front of John, who was struggling to remain conscious. He removed the cloth from John's mouth, allowing him finally to cough and gasp openly for air.

"John." He breathed in disbelief. "Look at me. Stay with me."

John's eyes rolled back as his head fell forward. The drug surging through his veins pulled him out of consciousness and into the dark.

Sherlock automatically went to undo the ties around John's wrists when he felt the barrel of a gun tap his right temple.

**Leave a review, pretty please? Next chapter should be up quickly***


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Sherlock's hands froze on the cords, all functioning nerves stilled at the touch of the gun to the side of his head.

"Stand up."

Sherlock did as he was told, slowly getting his feet as he raised his hands behind his head. He turned away from John's unconscious form to face Anthony. Although he held a look of complete confidence, the gun trembled in his grasp.

Sherlock knew Anthony had the upper hand, but his secret had conveniently slipped through his subconscious show of fear.

"You're not going to kill me." Sherlock spoke lowly, eyes unwavering from his and John's captor.

Anthony took a step forward, raising the gun as it had slightly lowered before.

"You don't think I will?"

"No."

He lifted a shaking finger to ready the gun, sounding the click that meant a single movement of his hand to pull the trigger could mean Sherlock's life.

"But if you do," Sherlock quickly added.

"tell me why you would give it to him." He nodded towards the syringe in the hand opposite the gun.

Anthony reacted with an expression as though Sherlock had missed the most obvious detail in the room.

"Do you know how long it took for me to build up your tolerance for a dose this concentrated?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed in question, alternating from Anthony's smug expression to the needle in his hand.

"Years, Sherlock. And then suddenly you decide to come back for an entire month? I don't know what could have happened to cause that- but you gave me the perfect opportunity to fast track the solution."

"It was more than seven percent."

Anthony huffed in amusement, still holding the gun at arms length.

"It's been more than seven percent for years now. Much more."

"How much?"

"Enough to kill a regular man on the first go. Enough to contaminate his system until it's too much for him to take."

"And you gave it to me because you knew I could take it."

Sherlock's voice had become raspy and sullen in the attempt to stay calm and collected.

His best friend was slumped down next to him, slowly being murdered from the inside out by an overdose of phencyclidine surging through his veins.

"No, I gave it to you because I knew it would eventually kill you."

He grinned widely turning to admire John's current state.

"But this man. John Watson, is it? He doesn't have a chance."

Sherlock's hands shot forward at their own accord, grabbing the gun in the hands of the other man, who was currently praising his work. Anthony's eyes shot up in surprise, but Sherlock already had the gun in his possession. It was pure furious hate that caused him to take Anthony by the neck and back him up against the wall with the gun to his head.

Incredibly, Anthony's grin turned into a wheezing chuckle as Sherlock's grip tightened around his throat.

"This... is not quite like you... is it?" Although he continued to struggle for breath, Sherlock had stopped, eyes wide, slightly loosening his hold.

"This will be the next thing... to kill you." He panted, still bearing that menacing smile.

"But you're gonna have to kill your friends first."

Sherlock jolted the tip of the gun into the side of Anthony's head as an unspoken warning.

"What are you talking about?"

"Side effects." He gasped, not bothering to smile as all his effort was now being used to prevent suffocation.

"Violence... a withdrawal symptom that you are obviously suffering from... Will only get worse... with time."

Sherlock released his hold on Anthony's neck, taking a staggering step backwards. Anthony fell, sinking to the floor in a coughing, wheezing mess.

He continued to point the gun at Anthony from where he stood, keeping him crouched on the floor in fear. Searching through his back pocket, he found his phone and dialed. His eyes were locked on Anthony when Lestrade answered on the first ring.

"Sherlock," Lestrade sighed angrily into speaker, his voice was riddled with a mix of anxiety and relief.

"Come inside."

The next few minutes passed in a blur. The flood gate was opened for dozens of police officers and medical emergency personnel to bust through the door and search the house.

Sherlock could only watch from the sidelines as the medical emergency team untied John from the chair and lowered his limp body down onto a prepared gurney. He was rushed from the room just as Anthony was pulled roughly to his feet and handcuffed by two police officers.

Sherlock made to follow John to the ambulance, wishing he would have caused so much more pain to Anthony when he had the chance.

"Sherlock," Anthony's voice came from behind, only to be silenced again by the police.

It took all him that he had not to turn around and beat the life out of this man, this monster who had been the cause of so much pain, and now possibly the loss of his best friend.

Incredibly, Sherlock brought himself to turn around and hear what Anthony could possibly have to say.

Anthony stood in between the two officers who both restrained him by the shoulders. There was no sense of defeat apparent on any part of his being. In contrast, he had a look of satisfaction plastered on his face.

"Don't forget your coat."

He nodded to the crumpled piece of black fabric that lay forgotten in the corner of the room.

Before Sherlock could respond, Anthony was taken from the room. The two officers pulled him roughly but he complied without protest, willingly exiting the house without another word.

Sherlock was left alone, left to contemplate the events that had just ensued, left to collect his coat off the filthy floor. And he did, carefully picking it up and brushing it off before shrugging it over his shoulders.

It was then that Lestrade entered the room, weary and out of breath.

"You alright?"

"They took John to Bart's." Sherlock stated as he turned his collar up.

"I need to get there."

"And you want me to take you." Lestrade sighed dismissively.

"I think that was implied, Jeff."

"It's Greg! For the last bloody time, it's Greg!"

"My sincerest apologies." Sherlock smiled sarcastically as he dropped his phone in his pocket.

The unnatural clanging sound that the phone made when dropped inside his pocket caught only Sherlock's attention. It sounded as though the phone had hit a small metal object on it's way down the fabric of his coat.

He hesitantly reached his hand down the pocket, brushing his fingers along the fibers until the fingertips touched a tube of cool glass. Running his hand along the side, he immediately identified the object when he felt a thin needle protruding from the tube.

"Let's go, then." Lestrade announced, tearing him from his thoughts.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, turning to leave the room with the detective inspector at his heels. Subconsciously, his hand had tightly grasped the full syringe in his coat.

**Please please please R&R! Will be updated quickly***


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

The ride to Bart's hospital dragged on mercilessly as Lestrade made the conscious decision to openly recall the account of every drugs bust he had ever supervised. The onslaught of continuous red lights didn't help either.

Sherlock shuffled impatiently in his seat, only half listening as the only thing that was bearing down on his mind at the moment was what still lay hidden in his coat pocket.

Everything that happened that night had been in an effort to get the syringe in his hands. In all the years he had been buying from Anthony, he had never been this persistent to get the drug directly to a buyer. Perhaps, with the new evidence regarding how Anthony had been continuously adding more of the drug into the solution since the first time Sherlock had taken it, this last dose would be concentrated enough to end his life. Sherlock's fingers drummed on the on the glass as he considered the possibilities.

Finally, by some miracle, they pulled up to Bart's. Sherlock mumbled a thank you as he threw open the car door and ran into the building.

The receptionist at the front desk droned out a sigh of annoyance when he came through the front door, immediately striding in her direction.

"John Watson." He demanded, slamming his hands down on the marble desk.

She rolled her eyes, proceeding to make a show of typing his name slowly on the keyboard, taking her sweet time scrolling down the list of names one by one.

Her obvious disliking to Sherlock may or may not have stemmed from the day he pointed out her unwanted pregnancy in front of the entire staff.

Sherlock was practically fuming by the time she looked up from the computer screen with a fake smile.

"207."

He was gone in an instant, disregarding the lift and running up the steps. He reached the floor and strode through the ICU doors, down the hallway, spotting a red-faced Mary Watson looking tired and disheveled at the end of it.

She quickly wiped her tear stained cheeks when she noticed Sherlock approaching.

Standing up from the bench on the wall opposite room 207, she forced a smile to greet him. She knew full well that he would see right through her feeble attempt at optimism, but she had to at least act strong for her sake.

She opened her arms for him, which he gladly accepted without a word, as though the embrace was exactly what he needed in that moment.

He broke away quickly, glancing towards the door then back at Mary with wide eyes, like a child silently begging for reassurance.

"They have him on dialysis right now. The doctor told me it's too early to tell if there's any real damage."

Her voiced cracked noticeably from the previous sobs but she kept her head held high. She couldn't bear to have Sherlock feel guilty for all that had happened.

Sherlock only nodded, inhaling deeply as he contained everything he had inside him. So many emotions passed through his mind, but the one that seemed to tramp them all was his ever growing anger. Angry at himself for causing the entire situation, angry at John for putting himself in harms way, angry that Anthony's prediction about his violent behavior was already showing symptoms. This wasn't a case he could solve and get over with. No, this was here to stay and there was nothing he could do about it except wait for his best friend walk out of that room, or be taken and laid down on a metal slab in the morgue.

And so they waited. Sherlock paced back and forth in habit while Mary sat straight on the bench facing the door, watching and listening intently for any sign of development.

It was three whole hours before the doors at the end of the hall opened to reveal a mousy pathologist, visibly relieved when she saw the two of them waiting there.

Mary met her halfway with open arms. Molly willingly enveloped her friend in the hug, whispering uplifting words and encouragement in her ear.

They walked back towards Sherlock together, Molly's arm tightly wrapped around Mary's shoulder in support.

Sherlock couldn't help but sense the relief that washed over him when Molly walked through the door. She was strong for him, for everyone she had the power to help. He had needed her there for him as much has he had needed John to rescue him that morning.

Sherlock was torn from his thoughts when he felt Molly's hand tentatively touch his shoulder. His fingers wrapped tightly around the syringe as his eyes found hers.

"Are you ok?"

He didn't know what his answer would have been if he'd had the chance to reply, but that was the exact moment an aged man in a white lab coat emerged from room 207.

The doctor looked fatigued, bearing the solemn expression he had spent years giving to the anxious families that awaited good news.

"Mary Watson?"

His voice was grim, there was only hope that it was the late night of work that made him sound as he did. Mary stepped forward with her chin up, fully prepared for the worst.

"We are pleased to say that John is improving. He reacted positively to the dialysis, and he's regaining consciousness as I speak."

Sherlock couldn't suppress the unrequited happiness and relief that escaped his lips, even surprised at how much it had actually been bearing down on him. Mary's eyes filled with tears of joy as Molly wrapped her in a now triumphant embrace.

"Oh my god, thank you!" Mary managed to say as Molly moved over to Sherlock, whose eyes were brimming with moisture as well. He looked more relieved than happy, taking deep rejuvenating breaths every now and then in an effort to keep calm as he had begun pacing again.

"Sherlock!" Molly grabbed him by the shoulders, steadying his worried pace. His eyes quickly met her bright expression. She grinned at his confused look.

"He's going to be alright."

Her quiet reassurance was enough to turn up the corners of his mouth into a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"I know." He replied softly, returning her joyful gaze.

Molly quickly separated when the doctor cleared his throat from behind.

"We're going to keep him overnight, so if the wife would like to stay she's perfectly welcome, but I suggest the two of you go back to your home and rest."

He promptly stalked off with his clip board, leaving the three of them alone, and it wasn't long before they parted ways. Mary gave another round of hugs before disappearing into the room where John now soundly slept.

It was at least two in the morning when Sherlock accompanied Molly in a cab to Baker Street. Both of them carried on in mutual silence, exhausted from the events of the day.

Molly looked over at the Sherlock she knew, the man with the beautiful blue-green eyes that seemed to know everything. They were watching the city pass by. The lights glided over his face, casting shadows over the contours of his cheekbones and neck.

"Why did you go?" She suddenly asked, surprising herself with the question. He turned to assess her expression, momentarily confused by the question and taking time to answer it.

"I had to save John." Finally replied as he turned back to the window.

"I mean the first time."

"What first time?"

"The first time you decided to take drugs." Her voice shook terribly as she had never once had the confidence to ask something this personal of him, and maybe she had gone too far.

He was silent for a time, intently watching the glass with his hands in his coat pockets.

"It doesn't matter. Why would it matter?" He suddenly shot back with an expectant glare, as if they had been arguing.

"It does, actually." She replied calmly, eyes unwavering from his.

"Why?"

"You did it the first time for a reason."

"Marvelous deduction." He hissed as the car rolled to a stop. He left the car in an instant, climbing the steps to 221B and slamming the door behind him.

Speechless by any means and completely taken aback by his reaction, She paid the anxious cabbie who sped away quickly when she got out of the car.

She now stood at the door of 221B in shock, trying to remind herself that yes, this was her home now. And yes, she needed to remain calm with him and let this conversation wait. Something had obviously set off an alarm when she mentioned the drugs, and she wouldn't bring them up again.

She tentatively opened the door to the unlit foyer, stepping through the threshold and letting the door creak closed. Tip-toeing up the steps until she reached the entry way, she was surprised to find the door left slightly ajar instead of firmly locked in place like the first.

She pushed it open, walking slowly into the dark flat, unsure of what awaited her. Her steps were silent as if she were frightened, and she wasn't.

She found his bellstaf had been thrown on the floor carelessly, revealing the black dress shirt that hugged his shoulder blades and lean torso.

Standing at the window, his silhouette against the moonlight had him turned away in deep thought.

"Sherlock?"

He remained unresponsive. Suspecting he had retreated to his mind palace, she sighed and made for the upstairs bedroom. She had landed the first step when he finally spoke.

"I've been asked that question many times over by people I would deem to be dull or transparent." He looked thoughtfully over his shoulder before softly exhaling.

"You didn't strike me as one of those people, Molly."

Molly felt her face heat up as she instinctually turned around to face him, hands clenched at her sides.

"So I am one of those people, then?"

"I would say so."

He said without hesitation, calmly making his way to fall down into his chair, resting his hands on the armrests as observed her intently with a smug expression.

"Why would you even give me the time of day?"

Her voice shook angrily and she tried to calm it, only reducing it to a feeble whisper as a lump raised in her throat.

"I've seen how you treat those people and I used to be one of them, but-"

"If you think anything has changed since then, you have my apologies but don't misinterpret me when say that it couldn't be further from the truth."

He said it plainly, emotionless, waiting impatiently for her to react. But she just stood there, eyes glinting with tears from the few light sources on the outside.

"This is not you." She finally whispered on an intake of breath.

"Who is it then?" He asked dangerously, narrowing his eyes to accompany his dark tone.

"This is the man that the drugs.."

His expression darkened, a muscle in his jaw shifted at the word.

"That the drugs have made you." She continued bravely, "And I know, that this is not the man that you are. I've said that I saw you at your worst and I did. But I've also seen you at your best and you make me love you. You make so many people love you and you are too proud to see that. You are giving yourself away and I don't want to stand here and watch if I can't help it."

With that, she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs, jamming the door shut in her wake.

He sat in stunned silence for what might have been an hour, staring at the entry way from which she disappeared to her room. The words he had said to her, completely unapologetic and cruel, dawned on him. And the fact that after all that, she still wanted to help him. There was nothing he could do in that moment to vanquish the pain, the guilt that tore him down every waking second he thought about his actions that night. He paced the room, pulling at his hair while desperately trying to think of a way to make it go away.

And that's when he remembered what still lay inside the pocket of his coat.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_Always the addict._

He remembered the words of the deranged cabbie who had attempted to make him take his own life. And he was. In every sense of the word, he was an addict.

Here he was, standing in the middle of his flat, eyeing the coat on the floor. Every fiber in his being ached for the drug inside it, the sweet relief it provided. It was right there for him, no one would know. He was alone in a room with his choice drug, with every right to use it if he so desired. And he did, painfully so.

His hands reached for the pile of fabric on the floor, urgently shuffling through the folds to find the pocket. Dragging the syringe from its hiding place, he slowly held it up to the light source from the window.

It felt so natural in his grasp, welcoming him back to that familiar world he had been in less than twenty-four hours previous. And now he had pathetically crawled back to it, returning at the cost of Molly's fierce friendship, and almost John's life.

He wanted so badly be rid of it, reminding himself that the very object he held in his hands had been the cause of the whole mess. The years of being clean, refraining from the temptation that loomed over him constantly, finished. Now it seemed he had made no progress, remained exactly how he had begun. Just as strange and abnormal as he had always been brought up to be by people.

But it was different this time. Everything had changed because the physical and emotional damage had now reached beyond him.

He raked through his thoughts, desperately trying to find a reason to walk away from the temptation. He knew that every second he didn't let go, it would be harder to put down.

And it was. He held onto the drug as though it were the only driving force to keep him going.

It was then that he could begin to feel the desire overcoming his logic. He panicked at the realization that his mind had begun to cloud without his consent. The anger he had been attempting to fight bubbled over, seeming to inhabit every raging breath he took.

With all the effort he could bring himself to give, Sherlock pitched the syringe at the opposing wall with a final cry of exertion. The instrument shattered thunderously on the mantel, sending shards of glass as well as the watery solution to the floor.

Sherlock's thoughts stilled mercifully as he sunk to his knees in pure exhaustion.

His breath remained ragged and uneven, still exerting the fury that had peaked moments ago. Liquid dripped from the fragments of glass below the fireplace. The sound of each droplet pounded in his ears, enough to send him crawling towards the mess in haste to rid his home of its filth.

He had just picked up the needle from the pile of glass and liquid when he heard Molly's light footsteps running down the stairwell. There was no time to think or act, only seconds to wait for the inevitable. And then she emerged into the dark sitting room, cad only in striped pajama bottoms and a tank top.

"What's happened?" She asked breathlessly and a bit groggily before she even laid eyes on him. She found him kneeling in front of the fireplace, head turned around to face her with wide eyes, only growing colder as she approached him. She did move closer in a delicate effort to see what he was hunched over, and her skin crawled at the sight of it.

"Sher-" Her breath hitched in her throat as she wrung a hand over her mouth.

His shoulders fell in defeat, running his fingers roughly through his curls before letting out a shaky breathe and meeting her eyes again.

"You have to go." His voice was almost inaudible, but that was about all he could manage at the moment.

She was not surprised by his demand; the words he had directly spoken earlier were clear evidence. Although they had hurt, she couldn't find it in her heart to up and leave him in this state.

Slowly kneeling down beside him, she hesitated when he tensed, staring openly at her bravery. He couldn't shade the expression of guilt and embarrassment when her eyes wandered down to the broken glass. She tentatively reached to pick up one of the larger pieces when Sherlock's hand shot out to grab her wrist.

He instantly loosened his grip at her intake of breath, realizing he had grabbed her with more force than he originally intended. "Don't."

His simple plea triggered confusion that changed in her features. She searched his face for answers; registering with uncertainty that his pained expression had returned to the cold, emotionless stare she had received from him earlier. His blue eyes pierced hers menacingly, coupled with the fact that he had not yet released her wrist, sent a twinge of fear down her spine.

He was not oblivious to the change in his behavior; in fact he was trying to resist it. His building temper had risen considerably. Violence, the side effect he had been warned of was taking real shape in his emotions, and it was all he could do to hold it back.

"I'm not leaving you like this." She stood her ground, speaking quietly but with strong assurance of her words.

He was using the last traces of his self control now, wishing that she would get the message. She was in legitimate danger, and Sherlock didn't want her to be, didn't want to be the cause of it. But he could feel himself losing, emotions taking over mind, his grip on Molly's wrist tightened instead of letting go.

All she could manage was a look of fear an confusion before she was jolted forward by the arm, taken full control over when Sherlock roughly grabbed her shoulders. His fingers gripped deeply into the skin, enough to know there would be bruises in the morning.

She let out a whimper of pain, trying to jerk away but he held her fast. He had completely given himself over, surrendered himself and lost control.

"Please, Sherlock." She gasped in pain as he tightened his grip on her small frame.

"You have to control it. Please, I know you can." She was begging, pleading with him to stop before it was too late. There was sullen understanding in her pained expression, and he saw it.

His eyes momentarily softened, but the effects were too strong and his anger surfaced again. He took her shoulders and pushed violently, sending her forcefully to the floor. She had no time to react before her scull hit the ground, briefly turning out the lights.

Opening her eyes, the room had filled with blinking stars in her line of sight. Only seconds passed until she regained her vision, but it was more than enough to contemplate what just happened. She was laying on her side, breathing quickening in the realization of her situation. Her head throbbed painfully, causing a moan to escape her lips as she attempted to sit up.

Cold hands grabbed her under the arms, forcefully pulling her to a wobbly standing position. She attempted to cry out, only to be roughly silenced by a hand tightly clasping over her mouth. The back of her bruised head came into hard contact with the wall as she was shoved against it.

There was only fear now, as she stared his the frozen blue hue of his eyes. In them, a level of fury she had never seen with him, and it only continued to grow. She had done nothing to provoke him, at least not to the point where he, Sherlock Holmes, would stoop to something as low as inflicting harm on her.

But here he was, pushing her up against the wall with his body, holding her wrists with one hand and her silencing her mouth with the other. He leaned in slowly as he carefully removed his hand, allowing her to inhale through her shaken sobs. His ragged breath was heavy on her ear as he took the free hand as an opportunity to slam his fist on the wall behind her, causing her to flinch in the process.

"Don't scream."

***About to enter some dark territory* Constructive criticism greatly desired. *Will update quickly***


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

There was no sound, no solid understanding hold on to when Sherlock's eyelids drifted open that morning. His mind groggily registered the aching muscles in his body, his limbs sprawled across the sofa carelessly as though he had simply fell there, instantly surrendering to the confines of sleep in his exhaustion.

And he remembered being exhausted last night. He realized the limit of things he did remember. The memories of the nights events were thickly fogged over by the throws of hateful rage that had taken him hours earlier.

He slowly raised himself off the sofa, groaning at the protest of his sore joints. The room spun as soon as he got to his feet, causing him to slump back down on the cushions. Rubbing his eyes, he tried to rid his mind of the fuzzy numbness that the sleep had given him, and help his vision to steady. He instantly regretted opening his eyes to the state of the sitting room that lay before him.

Sunlight filtered through the windows in yellow rays filled with specks of dust. They settled on the ground, illuminating crumpled papers and broken glass that littered the floor, the furniture in complete disarray as the tables and chairs had been turned over or sideways. The mirror above the fireplace was etched with a large dent in the lower right hand corner with webs of the sliced glass originating out from it. His stomach turned when he noticed a few small traces of blood on the shards of mirror that hung loose from the frame. He had never been one to grow nauseous at the sight of blood, but the fact that he had caused its release was the only exception.

Deductions flew through his mind without end as his eyes observed the room further, every piece of evidence pointing to the conclusion he didn't want to believe. It was the moment his ears caught a soft groan from the kitchen that he got his result.

Every slow step towards the sound felt heavier than the last. Not knowing the extent of the damage, but knowing without a doubt in his mind that he had inflicted it.

He rounded the kitchen table, eyes falling to the floor as Molly's form came into view. His breath caught in his throat, a hand grasped the edge of the table for support, his eyes soaked every part of her in, every one of his faults beared on her body.

She lay sprawled on the cold tile floor, covered only by a thin tank top and knickers, leaving the rest of her beaten, bruised skin visible for him. Her arms and legs were marked with dark purple bruises and scraped enough in to draw blood in some places. His eyes moved to her neck, watching the tendons strain, chest heaving as though she struggled for breath.

Only seconds passed before he was on his knees at her side, taking to cradle her head he lifted it slightly. His fingers brushed the dried blood on the back of her head, confirming the assumption that he had jammed her skull against the mirror in previous night, causing the cracked glass.

She didn't look like his Molly, the sweet innocence of her features had been more than tampered with. The tender skin around one of her eyes had blackened, her cheek had flushed an angry shade of red at the cut that had dried and crusted over in the night.

He let out an uneven breath, his entire body trembling with hate for nothing but himself. He couldn't even bring himself to speak, holding her to him when he knew he would never be worthy to touch her again.

He inhaled deeply, attempting to keep composure as he carefully lifted Molly into his arms, taking the upmost care in refraining from touching her cuts and bruises. He carried her limp form to the sitting room, and gently placed her down on the sofa.

Taking a slow step back, he gaped in disbelief at her broken figure. The evidence in the room was obvious, but he couldn't place it in his mind to understand how it could ever result in Molly Hooper lying half dead on the kitchen floor of 221B, at his own hands.

Every fiber of his being ached with remorse, washing over him in waves until he was drowning, gasping for breath in this storm he had created completely and absolutely out of his own conscience. Every decision he had made led this monster he had created out of himself. Regardless of his circumstance, the choice he had made ended with him inflicting injury to Molly, the one who was there for him, to help rid himself of his mistakes.

And he had damaged her in so many ways. He had falsely expressed his indifference to her presence, practically pushing her out the door with his words, and she still came back. She had cast his hateful words aside and tried to pick him up and dust him off after he had finally let go of the drug that linked his past to the present. He allowed his emotions, his side effect, to overcome his logic, causing him to lash out with unjustified violence.

He didn't even know what he did to her, and he hated not knowing. Of course he had beaten her, but had he done more? The one person who knew the answer lay scraped and bruised, unconscious in front of him. His mouth grew dry at the thought, releasing a shaky breath as he drew a trembling hand to his mouth.

The pain overwhelmed him with such force, such animosity that he staggered backwards into his chair, head falling into his hands that tightly grabbed and pulled at his hair follicles. He felt nauseous, crossing his arms tightly around his abdomen as his breath rate increased, deepening through each loud exhale.

There had to be way to stop the pain, a way to control it. He felt as though a hole had been ripped through him, tearing at the heaviness and remorse that already made up his wasted emotion.

The second he felt moisture brimming in his eyes he shot up from his chair, not knowing what he was about to do but absolutely intent on doing something, anything to lessen the feeling. He knew exactly how to numb the pain, it was then that he regretted launching the syringe at the wall the previous night. If there were ever a time for it, that was it.

He searched the flat for a solution, raking it over desperately through the state of the mess. eyes caught sight of his chemistry set on the kitchen table. A glass beaker of ammonia for an experiment had mercifully stayed intact, sat waiting for him on the table, beckoning him forward. And he welcomed it without hesitation, stumbling over to get it in his grasp as though it would disappear any moment.

Molly breathed in conscious as it returned, whimpering in surprise from the sting of pain that engulfed every inch of her skin. She couldn't bring herself to open her eyes as her body grew stiff in an attempt to control the throbbing ache.

Finally, after hearing a series of ragged breathing and a soft clinking of glass, she forced her eyes to open, unable to open one completely as it the skin had grown swollen and tender from the previous night.

The image that met her vision was cause for her to cry out from her vulnerable position on the sofa in an attempt to stop him. But she couldn't speak, unable to utter a sound from either the disuse of her voice, or the onslaught of her screams the night before.

She found him next to the kitchen table, neck arched as he swallowed the contents of a beaker, immediately coughing at the stinging burn that the chemical caused to his throat. His legs soon buckled beneath him, sending him to hands and knees.

She tried to say his name, only resulting in a gasp from a sharp twinge pain in her chest. Her intake of breath reached Sherlock's ears, and he instantly responded, raising his head to meet her eyes with his watering ones.

Their eyes locked for only seconds before Sherlock's breath hitched, he gasped and groaned in pain, finally falling out of consciousness as he fell limp to the floor.

***Should be updated quickly***

**(don't yell at me)**


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

The first intake of breath that Sherlock attempted to take painfully fanned the chemical flames in his throat. Heavy eyelids opened to a blinding light above his head. Muffled voices became clearer as he could feel his body being moved. The words they were saying didn't reach past the piercing ring in his ears. The white light in his eyes shifted to reveal the concerned expressions of several nurses, pushing him past numberless doors, down an hallway that didn't seem to have an end.

Florescent ceiling lights flashed over his vision continuously, making him wish he had time to let his eyes explore each one, experience the pleasant sting they provided, but he didn't feel he deserved such a luxury as pain. No, he deserved to be alone, in solitary confinement without the opportunity to numb the ache in his chest.

His eyes caught sight of a bag of clear liquid set above him, swaying as the gurney moved forward with the nurses hurried steps. The thin plastic tube trailed from the bag down to a needle puncturing his wrist. His heartbeat quickened as a series of unanswered questions flashed through his mind; Who had found him? Where was Molly? Was she alive?

His panicked thoughts were interrupted when the nurses took a sharp turn through a door, pushing the gurney into a small surgical unit. Seconds after he was jolted to a stop, a plastic breathing cup was placed over his mouth, distributing cleansing fumes to his lungs.

The medicine began its course on Sherlock's mind, clouding into a thickening fog. He perceived the taste of the anesthetic, and didn't want to go under again. He needed answers to his questions, and they were fading into the dark corners of his drugged thoughts. With all the strength he had left, he attempted to lift himself off his back as he tore the plastic off his mouth. He gasped in pain at the searing ache that shot right through the increasing numbness, stinging every nerve it could reach.

The medical team immediately restrained him, rushing to push him back down as he protested in earnest. There were too many hands resisting his feeble attempt at escape, all of their faces professional and emotionless under their surgical masks.

"Molly!" He tried to cry out her name, only resulting in a frantic whisper due to his dry, chemical addled throat coupled with the working anesthetic. His eyelids drooped as he pathetically conformed to the effects of the medicine. His struggling lessened until he couldn't hold himself up anymore, falling back on the gurney in helpless defeat.

A motherly nurse with wrinkles around her eyes patted his shoulder softly, prompting his drowsy attention. "Don't fight it, love." She whispered encouragingly, reaching over to wipe the hot beads of sweat off his forehead with a damp washcloth that she had requested.

He quietly gave in, moisture gathered in his eyes, only because his body wouldn't allow for anything else. His eyes drifted closed as his thoughts finally left him, leaving him in a silent confinement of forced sleep.

A soft light filtered through Sherlock's eyelids, inhaling the release of numbness from his awakening nerves. A familiar soreness developed into the pain he knew was coming the second his thoughts were somewhat clear. His eyes squinted open to the brightness of a hospital room. He was resting on a thin mattress, cad in a pale blue hospital gown. A low beeping tone sounded from his right, a heart monitor making his weak heartbeats apparent.

Spotting a forgotten medical report on the nightstand at his side, he shifted his arm to reach for it, hissing when a palpable twinge of pain that struck his wrist. He wrenched it back straight, registering the needle still stuck in his vein. He threw his head back on the flimsy pillow in utter annoyance, counting the tiles on the ceiling in an effort to calm the array of thoughts and emotions he could never escape in consciousness.

"Had a rough night, then?" A calm, sternly directed voice broke the silence. Sherlock jolted forward in shock, finding a man sitting in a wheelchair by the window, also dressed in a hospital gown.

"John," Sherlock gasped in the ache from sitting up so quickly, having thought he was alone in the room. He recovered, raking his eyes over John's rigid form. It hardly took a glance to notice that he was practically fuming. "Are you alright?"

He had not disregarded the fact that John had also spent the night in the hospital, ridding his blood of a powerful dose of phencyclidine that had been forced into his system. When he didn't answer, Sherlock anticipated that John was aware of everything that had ensued between him and Molly. And he knew exactly what was coming.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak only to be stopped by John's raised finger. "No. You are not going to talk." He was obviously infuriated. It took all of his patience just to look at the man across from him, as if he could do any damage in his current state.

"I don't want to hear a word, until I'm finished. Do you think you can manage that?"

Sherlock wasn't even surprised at the blunt anger in his tone, John had every right to be angry, and it was the very least he could do the listen to his words. He nodded in agreement, propping himself up to listen with a tremendous amount of effort. John waited for Sherlock to ready himself, then sat in exasperated silence, staring down at his hands while his expression turned from his usual anger to a sullen disappointment.

Sherlock didn't know what to make of it, he had never seen John disappointed in him. Furious, annoyed, resentful, yes, but it was different this time. Finally, John raised his eyes to find Sherlock prepared for the worst. He lay stiff on the inclined bed, staring back with anticipation.

"There are a lot of things that you have done in the past that I didn't understand," John began; exhausted from the treatment he had received. "And I usually just go with what ever plan you may have at the moment because they usually-yes, usually- work. This entire situation is completely out of hand, and I never thought that you of all people would ever let it get to this. I just could not believe-"

"-that I would lay a finger on a woman." Sherlock stole the words, finding security in saying them first. He didn't find spite or annoyance in John's expression. Still the look of disappointment, deepened with his first remark.

"That you would lay a finger on Molly Hooper."

Sherlock closed his eyes, releasing a strained breath full of contained self-loathing. His apparent feelings would have been obvious to John, had he not been consumed with his own at the moment.

"She told me what happened. Took a lot of persuasion, and a therapist in the room. But she let me in on what went on last night."

Sherlock's eyes flicked to the door and back at the mention of her name. "Is she alright?"

"No Sherlock, she's completely not alright. Do you know what happened?"

"I hurt her." He exhaled this quietly, not keen to hear the details but wanting them more than anything.

"You don't know what you did." John sighed, leaning back in the chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was quickly becoming overwhelmed with the situation.

"No." Sherlock replied hesitantly, eyes fixed on the other man. "Where is she?"

John inhaled deeply, meeting Sherlock's eyes as though it was a test of his patience to do so. "Mycroft had her moved to the room across from you. He thinks you can lessen your punishment by making amends or…. something. I don't know what he thinks it will do, he could get you out of prison anyway. To be honest, I don't think he wants to."

Sherlock nodded, eyes searching the small pattern on the fabric of his hospital gown, replaying the words in his mind while John awaited a reply.

"Mycroft is here." He finally spoke, turning back to the army doctor with a blank expression."

"Yes." John restated slowly, "He should actually be here sometime quickly. I texted him that you were awake."

As if on que, the door swung open to reveal a disheveled Mycroft Holmes. He briefly met Sherlock's eyes before taking to slump down in a chair by the wall in exhaustion. A young doctor followed him in, immersed in jotting down marks on his clipboard before looking up to find the state of emotion in the room. He cleared his throat in an attempt to ease the tension.

"Sherlock Holmes?" He addressed with a false grin as he reached forward for a handshake. Sherlock took it with a solemn expression, his features void of emotion.

"Hello, Doctor."

The serious atmosphere tensed as the seconds ticked on, not one of them was there to waste any time.

"I guess I should get right down to it then." The doctor shook his head, taking a deep breath before reading the verdict. Sherlock noticed that both Mycroft and John waited anxiously for the news, meaning this would be the first they heard of it as well as him.

"Your past drug abuse, your apparent binge this month, and the ammonia consumption have all taken a tremendous toll on your body. Particularly speaking, your liver. To put it plainly, it has caused complete liver failure."

He took a moment for Sherlock to react, but his expression remained as it was; intent on listening, soaking up the information he had been craving. In contrast, John's face fell, being a doctor as well, knowing what it all meant. Mycroft simply looked away, straining to keep composure as his eyes fell to the floor.

The Doctor hesitantly continued, putting aside Sherlock's lack of reaction.

"A series of liver function tests have shown that the entire organ is diseased. If we were able to find a healthy portion of the liver-

"You could leave it and it would regenerate to full size." Sherlock interceded, his voice had grown raspy in reaction to the news. "But the entire liver is diseased so you are unable to do that. I need a donor."

"We wish it were that simple." The doctor sighed, eyes flicking down to the clipboard in his hands. Sherlock's brow furrowed in question.

"There are some complications in your case. The chances of this happening to anybody are minuscule but it's unfortunately apparent in your current situation."

"What complications?" Mycroft suddenly spoke from his place by the wall. All eyes turned from him to the Doctor in anticipation for the answer.

"His body won't accept any donor's liver. The best chance of survival he has is partial liver donation from a blood relative."

The room turned silent, no audible reaction could be heard. At least a minute past before Sherlock's eyes drifted up to meet Mycroft's strained expression. Before anyone had a chance to speak, Mycroft stood with heavy breath, striding out of the room as door fell closed in his wake, leaving the dying the detective and his doctor without his help.

**Leave a review, tell me what you think! More to come quickly***


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The doctor stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, clutching his clipboard as he was at a loss for what to do.

"I'll... be in later, I'm very sorry Mr. Holmes."

He willingly turned and left through the door.

John didn't hesitate to quickly wheel over to Sherlock's bedside, pleading inwardly that Mycroft's sudden exit wouldn't bear down on Sherlock's mind enough for him to close up again. But it looked as though he already was. Sherlock stared straight ahead in confined silence, the corners of his mouth twitched downward as he tried to conceal his emotions.

"Sherlock, listen to m-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted quietly, turning to find the other man's eyes with a defeated expression. He exhaled shakily, attempting to remedy the moisture brimming in his eyes.

"He's not going to help me. I've already cost him so much, I can't even consider asking him to do this for me."

"You have to."

"I don't deserve it." He sighed, lying back on the bed.

"No, you don't." John bluntly replied. "But you owe it to a lot of people to at least fight for it."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze. "Who do I owe it to?"

John huffed in disbelief. "Well there's me and Mary for one. I hope you haven't forgotten what you said at the wedding. Your "last vow" I think you called it."

And Sherlock had not forgotten it, not once since the wedding had his promise ceased to course through his mind every time he did anything he was ashamed of, anything that brought him further from the dignity and joy he felt from the small group of people he felt were important to him.

"And of course there's Molly."

Sherlock didn't reply for a time, staring blankly at the wall in deep thought. "She wouldn't want me to try."

John scoffed in sullen amusement. "This is Molly Hooper you're talking about. I honestly don't think she's capable of a death wish on anyone."

"I would think so as well, but the damage I caused makes me a considerable exception. Don't you think?"

John was taken back by the sudden change of direction, and took to searching his face, still skeptical and protective.

"You need to understand what Molly is dealing with. It will take time for her to recover-"

"Tell me what I did."

"Sherlock,"

"Please." He was genuinely pleading with John now, eyes wide with moisture, aching with the desire to understand the depth of his mistake. John's eyes only wondered down to his hands, pondering in deep thought as Sherlock waited, growing impatient as the seconds passed broodingly.

"Okay," John conformed frankly, inhaling deeply as he nodded in surrender. "But only because it means that she doesn't have to tell you herself."

At this, Sherlock narrowed his gaze in question and impatience. He had already made a number of deductions concerning what he had done, but the fact that it was something she would find difficult to even speak with him about reduced the possibilities significantly.

"John." Sherlock tore him from his thoughts as he had drifted off in finding the right words.

"Right." he began as he hesitantly met Sherlock's hard gaze. "Molly... She told me that you had beaten her, quite badly if you haven't seen the state she's in."

The image of finding her cut and bruised on the kitchen floor flashed through his mind, shuddering at the thought.

"She said when you had finished, you... took advantage of her."

Sherlock's heart dropped, sinking heavily to his stomach, sending a wave of nausea through his system.

"Tell me exactly what you mean." His voice cracked, raspy and sullen, as he already knew perfectly well what it meant.

"You raped Molly." John sighed into his hands, almost as though he was realizing this at the same moment he told the man responsible.

Sherlock's eyes fell back to the harsh ceiling light, breath caught in his throat in the moment that his worst fear had been confirmed. Everything that had happened seemed to be minor details to the final mistake he had made. All the times he had dealt with a case involving a sexual assault, he had looked down on the culprit with an loathing that would differentiate the act from the murder. A killer could be clever with their victims, occasionally enough to catch his interest. A sexual predator worked off the will of his basic human instincts, sinking to a level of animosity that turned his stomach.

And he had stooped to that level, in a state of mind that produced only anger and the desire to overtake Molly in the lowest, most desperate way possible. There could not have been the slightest trace of love in his actions, only the primal need that had damaged her so profusely, so intimately. He had tampered with her gentle innocence, and he knew not whether she would let it affect her loving nature and turn her into a bitter woman. Although he would not blame her of she did, it was not in her character to let events in her life change her for the worse.

He should have noticed his eyes had glistened with tears while he lay on the sheets, the raw display of emotion as he brought his hands to his hair, trying to block out the onslaught of hateful thoughts that he couldn't silence with all his effort. John sat still, remaining constant by Sherlock's side, swallowing back his disgust with sympathy he didn't know he had for him.

Just as John opened his mouth to speak, the door creaked open, entering Mary Watson and a petite female nurse. Mary took one look at Sherlock, her eyes widening at his current state. John nodded to his wife in confirmation that he knew.

"John, we're going to have to take you back now." The nurse announced plainly as she took hold of John's wheelchair handles and made to leave.

"Ye- hold on!" John sighed in annoyance as he stilled the wheels of his chair, meeting his wife's eyes and then the man in bed, whose blank expression didn't waver as he tried to hold himself together.

"Sherlock," John pleaded with him to respond, prompting Mary to stand by his side, stroking his forearm lovingly.

At her touch, his clear, bloodshot eyes darted to her warm expression, extended down to him with what had to be a massive amount of self-control. The corners of her mouth even turned up into a smile, briefly attempting reassurance without words. She squeezed his hand tightly, before moving to exit the room. The nurse followed suite, pushing John out the door in his chair.

After the door had closed softly, he was finally left alone. The grey sky had grown dark, casting long shadows from the light in the hallway. The activity outside the door had decreased significantly, surrounding him with silence. His thoughts had not faltered from what John had just told him he did, and the fact that Molly was being medically administered to in the room across from his.

He exhaled unevenly, closing his eyes, as he was unable to rid his mind of the image of Molly, her broken body pinned underneath his on the cold tile floor of his flat, whimpering with pain as he rakes his fingers over the bruised skin. Her shoulders shaking with stifled sobs while his ragged breath lay heavy on her neck. His lips trail along her jawline before nipping at the juncture below her ear, branding her in preparation for what she knows she is helpless against.

Sherlock tore himself from his thoughts, sitting up on the hospital bed so quickly that stars blocked his peripheral vision. After his head had recovered from the dizziness, he carefully swung his bare feet over the bed, planting them firmly on the floor. Although his stomach turned at the very thought, he knew what he needed, and he would settle for nothing less.

His body ached as he arose off of the bed in his hospital gown. A hand grasped the side table as a new wave of nausea hit, his throat still burning painfully with the sedated chemical he had ingested hours earlier. He groaned, struggling to keep his stance but determined nonetheless. Grabbing the portable stand that kept the IV connected to his wrist, he pushed it along, taking slow steps towards the door. Each intake of breath grew more difficult to take, up to the point where his legs almost gave out a few feet from the threshold. His hand mercifully reached the door handle, slowly pushing it open for him to peer out into the hallway, which appeared empty for the moment.

And there was her room, the door exactly across from his as Mycroft had arranged it. And he still could not for the life of him, comprehend the reason why he had done such a thing. But there it was, a small paper on the room number that read: _Hooper, M. _

At the sight of her name, his feet moved forwards, stepping barefoot across the hallway to meet her door. He stopped in full as he confronted it, releasing a baited breath as he rested his head on the wood. He couldn't contemplate a sound reason why he should enter the room, he only had the whisper in the back of his mind that told him to open the door, and so he did.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Sherlock walked with silent steps as he entered the darkened room. The bed lay centered on the floor, surrounded by an array of medical equipment and machines that hummed softly against the dim silence of the small space. The heart monitor beeped slowly, keeping a soft, steady rhythm that signaled his heart to slow with it in slight relief.

It was not until his eyes found the woman on the bed that his heart dropped, the work of his hands being revealed to him in a different light.

What he had seen of her face before had been cleaned, the cuts had been patched up and bandaged while the deep bruises remained untouched to offer as much comfort as the doctors could manage before interfering. The dried blood had been washed away, revealing what he had not seen of her face. Her calm features contrasted her devastating predicament as she slept, chest rising and falling under the sheets, which he knew hid a great deal more results of his beating on her, and his stomach turned as his mind wondered back to it.

He somehow found the will to move forward with unprepared steps, approaching her bedside and slowly falling into the chair at her side, he sat straight and wrung his hands in his lap. He didn't know why he had come, but to be in her presence physically, to be able to see her breath gave him a sense of relief.

He couldn't bring himself to say a word, only capable of being there for whatever time he had left, and he had considered that fact. The one that had taken the back seat of the two, very real-very palpable problems in his life that he had been the direct cause of.

He was shaken from his thoughts when a sudden cough pulled Molly out of her sleep. He froze as she raised a hand to stifle it, her eyes fluttering opened to the window opposite Sherlock. Her hand dropped over her hospital gown as her sight landed on the soft moonlight filtering through the window.

Sherlock held his breath, watching the glassy irises of her brown eyes gain moisture as her throat hitched.

"Molly-" He whispered hesitantly, instantly regretting it when she jumped at her name with a gasping cry that hardly reached beyond the bed. She cringed with pain at her sudden awakening, turning quickly to meet his earnest expression.

Her eyes slowly changed with the anxious atmosphere to something more sinister, more loathsome at the sight of her captors face. All the time she had to ponder over the recent event could not have been enough until she saw him at her bedside, watching her reaction with the epitome of sullen remorse apparent in his fallen expression.

There were no words between them, as neither knew what to say, what to think. And even with the hate radiating from her, even though it sent a sharpening pain through his chest as he returned it with understanding, he needed to stay. There finally came a moment when his eyes dropped, unable to reach hers any longer, and she would have none of it.

"Look at me, Sherlock."

His eyes flew back up in response to her calm voice, doing as she asked and finding her eyes with a mournful expression as though she had asked so much of him. He watched her face with a look of harassed fatigue, looking tiredly lost without a hint of being delusive. Her expression softened slightly, furrowed brows relaxed into a concern, resonating with his guilt.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice dripped with a sincerity he never thought he would have the privilege of hearing from her again. Eyes widening in surprise, he quickly raked them over her face, matching the features with the voice to make sure it was still her who had asked.

"I think… it's safe to say it doesn't matter." He replied submissively.

Her soft expression remained fixed on his as she relaxed, shifting her weight back on the inclined mattress, her bandaged head fell back on the pillow, causing a stifled wince at the stabbing twinge of pain on the back of her skull.

He noticeably tensed at her show of pain, hands clenched into fists in what she only saw as self-loathing.

"Well," she began, eyes on his hands, "I think it's safe to say that you're right."

He nodded with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" She whispered this through an exhale, finding his desolate gaze to be hard on hers when she reached it again.

"Because my being an addict brought me to inflict self harm by ingesting roughly 43 milliliters of ammonia."

"I know, I watched you drink it. I mean, tonight, in this room, why did you come here?"

His expression did not waver, narrowed on hers as he contemplated her reply, the answer coming to him within a moment.

"I needed to know what happened, to see you in this room and know the course of events that occurred between you and me that night-"

"There was no 'you and me' Sherlock." She interceded quickly, anger rising in her small voice. "There was only you and your drugged mind, and I just happened to be in the room at the time."

"You can't possibly believe that." He managed a smirk through his reply filled with desperation. "There was no logic in my actions, but you have to consider your influence on what I did. Surely you're smart enough to believe I would have stopped after beating you to the ground."

Speechless, she felt a sizable lump rise in her throat, wide eyes glistened as she lay stiff on the mattress, daring him to continue with his words. His defensive posture reclined at the realization of what had just escaped his mouth.

"Molly," He hesitated, pleading with himself it find the right words, the mental exhaustion peaked with the physical, and he was unable to silence the deepening emotions that were threatening to show.

"Molly, I came to you tonight in order to learn exactly what I did to you. Your point of view is the only one that matters, and I know that I deserve to suffer without this knowledge for the rest of my life, but I am asking you now, with the sincerest of intentions, to tell me."

She had turned away with closed eyes, determined not to cry in front of him again. Releasing a shaky breath, she found his tragically earnest gaze, and she hesitantly swallowed back her tears.

"You couldn't be in a worse position to ask anything of me," She croaked out bravely, fixed on his intense expression. "but you know I'm not the type to make anyone suffer."

His lips parted, as if to say something, but he decided against it. He nodded in solemn agreement to listen to everything she had to say, and her gaze softened with his in a wordless reassurance.

"How much do you remember?"

"We had returned to Baker Street, I said some very cruel things to you, and thrown a syringe at the wall. You had tried to help me and I remember getting angry, more furious than I ever recall being in my life and I imagine that's when.." He drifted off, signaling the point where his memory had ceased. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

"That's all you remember?"

Any reassurance he felt before dropped to the pit of his stomach before he replied to her question almost inaudibly.

"Yes."

Molly turned away slowly, eyes filled with moisture as they fell to the dark ceiling

"You should know that I tried to fight." She began with a cracked voice. "Everything I did to stop you made no difference. In that moment, I knew you were I different person. Never, in all the years that I've known you did I ever think you were capable of what you were doing. It was just.. so unlike you that I didn't know how to react. You started by beating me, and there was so much of it, so much pain that there were times I wanted to die to end it. And you threatened me with more so many times if I tried to scream. But I finally did, and that was my worst mistake. I had thought.."

She paused, shutting her eyes tightly at the memory, tears sliding down the side of her face.

"I had thought that someone would hear me. But no one came, and that was your opportunity. I expected more pain, to be thrown against the wall or something of the sort. Then when I saw your face, there was a something there that told me the… situation had changed. You lowered me down on your floor while I was still conscious, too weak to move, but awake enough to feel everything, see everything. And then you were on top of me, whispering things into my ear that confused me in so many ways. The things you said were almost loving, apologies and gentle words that I didn't understand coming from you. Your hands were everywhere, and you were kissing me, touching me. It escalated into so much more, but.. I didn't respond to any of it. I wanted to fight, but I couldn't move."

She couldn't stifle the quiet sobs that escaped at the harsh realization that she had been without control against him, the man sitting next to her.

"I couldn't fight you."

Her eyes fell back to Sherlock, whose hands were clenched to his dark curls as he leaned forward, breathing heavily with heart ache that he knew he deserved.

It might have been minutes before Sherlock finally lifted his head out of his hands to meet Molly's eyes. The unconditional remorse in his pained expression said everything that he felt. The wall he had so carefully built had been violently torn down, resulting in this broken man who sat in front of the woman he had hurt in so many ways, and she felt sorry for him.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

It was not long after Molly had finished her account of the story that she couldn't stand to watch Sherlock suffer any longer, not while she pathetically lacked the physical and mental strength to help him, let alone herself. She reluctantly pressed her thumb to the button that would buzz the nurse in, praying that he would know that it was for both of their benefit, and not the stubborn hatred she knew he expected from her.

A matronly nurse entered the dark room, gaze landing on the two patients that inhabited it, eyes locked with one another until the pathologist's flicked to the nurse in the doorway. Molly felt like a child when her eyes filled with more tears, angry at herself for feeling any guilt. She suddenly wanted more than anything for him to stay, pleading to him with frightened eyes.

He watched her intently, gaze narrowing in confusion until he understood. Something resembling hope changed his features, and then he felt a hand sternly fall on his shoulder.

"Come on, love." The nurse urged in a calm whisper, "let's get you back to your room."

Out of respect for Molly and that creeping feeling of lost self-worth, Sherlock complied without protest, allowing himself to rise unsteadily to his feet on his own. The nurse smiled reassuringly, about to lead him from the room when Sherlock felt a soft hand grab his own. In all his exhaustion, he had never felt more awake at her merciful touch. His soft gaze fell to hers, filled with desperation he did not feel he deserved from such a woman.

He gently wrapped his fingers around her grasp, trusting himself with only a brief caress of his thumb over her knuckles and an understanding expression before her let her go, and he had to go.

The nurse led him from the room, about to cross the hall into his own quarters when he came to a sudden stop in the closed doorway, moistened eyes narrowed on the man sitting cross legged on a bench outside his own room.

"Mycroft," His baritone voice had grown hoarse and raspy with emotional fatigue.

"Evening, Sherlock."

To his relief, the usual smirk that held Mycroft's expression was not there to mock him this time. Instead there lay a deep disappointment that Sherlock had not seen in all the years since his first over dose.

The nurse stood by while neither man spoke, Mycroft looked to the floor while Sherlock held his intense gaze. He was brought back when she nudged his arm, nodding towards the door to his room.

"Off you go." She patted his back softly, turning with a nod to the British government and headed the opposite direction down the long hallway.

Without a word, Sherlock swept barefoot passed his brother, throwing open the door and taking to slowly clamber into his own bed, the stabbing pain in his abdomen still less than tolerable.

"You shouldn't be going near her." Mycroft cautioned as he entered the room.

"Well," Sherlock groaned as he settled on the thin mattress. "Judging by your placement of my room and hers, you seem very determined to keep me near her."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Save it. John told me everything."

"Did he?" Mycroft droned matter-of-factly as he stepped forward slowly in his grey suit and jacket.

"Then I trust you are aware of miss Hooper's current predicament." He corrected himself, coming to a stop a few feet from the bed. "Of course you are. You've just seen her."

After a painfully long moment, detective tore his eyes away from the disgusted stare of his brother, more than equally repelled by himself, but that was not as easy to escape.

"Tell me, dear brother, what is it that you have gained from your little exertion tonight? Was it enlightening to find that you have almost cost miss Hooper her life?"

Sherlock's wavering gaze stilled, falling closed at the cruel pointed question.

"Not that yours is any exception." The older brother took another step forward, disgusted smirk more than apparent on his features.

"I honestly believed that you would have a more... _interesting_ death. Considering the situations where a good number of your cases have taken you, I knew it was only a matter of time." His eyes had fell to the ground, stopping at the head of the bed to raise them to meet the fatigued glare of the consulting detective.

"But look at you now." He continued, voice filled with ice. "Bed ridden, dying from liver failure in a hospital room while the woman you raped and the man who saved you from that ghastly drug den both wait recovery from things which you have complete fault over."

"Mycroft-" Sherlock spoke through a hard exhale, only to be cut off by his brother's unnervingly calm tone.

"The amount of effort that I have put forth over the years to stop something this drastic happening, finished. I won't give you anything else, Sherlock. I've lost the will to do so."

The dying detective searched his brother's face, for once in his life unable to speak. As much as Sherlock wanted to reply with a heinous insult to the degree of selfish hatred that his brother was openly displaying to him, has much as he had to restrain himself from taking off from the bed and walking back to Baker Street to live out his last hours alone, he stayed silent where he lay propped up on the bed to endure his Brother's verbal throws.

"I don't blame you for not wanting to help me." Sherlock began in a shaking voice, lower than usual as he had just been verbally beaten in his exhaustion.

"Everything I have ever done that has been an embarrassment to you, has been wrought from my own selfish addictions. I can't express with words, the remorse that I feel for what I did to Molly... and John, but mostly Molly."

Mycroft huffed in sullen amusement.

"In all honesty, when I heard the diagnosis I didn't expect you to want to help me. With everything you've done to keep me away from all that, I wasn't strong enough to withstand being alone."

"You've never had any difficulty being alone, Sherlock. Even as a child you seemed to prefer it."

"I've obviously changed." Sherlock shot back in defense, recoiling back as he remembered his current state of power in the room and situation. He sighed, slowly resting his head back with closed eyes.

"I'm sorry I ever put you in this position."

There was no reply, only a brief moment of quiet before slow steps echoed on the floor, the sound of the door slamming shut, and then there was silence.


	16. Chapter 16

**Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited and reviewed, you make me so happy! I know this has been a difficult read, and I promise it's not at all easy to write but I enjoy exploring these themes. This is my first fanfic so if you have any suggestions please let me know (if you like it you can let me know too) I adore all of your reviews so please leave one for me if you love it, hate it, or anything in between. **

Chapter 16

"Sherlock," an earnest voice roughly pulled him out of sleep, eyes drifting open to view John Watson sitting stiffly beside his bed with bright eyes and an anxious disposition, not the contempt and anger he had bluntly expressed before.

"I see they let you out." Sherlock acknowledged, nodding groggily to John's state of dress. He had changed from the hospital gown to jeans and knitted jumper that Mary had brought from home.

"Yeah," John sighed, gaze falling down to himself and around the room. "I got out of recovery this morning. I know it's been absolute hell for Mary."

His hands were wrung together tightly, mouth pressed into a hard line as he fidgeted in his chair, obvious signs of anxiety.

"Clearly you have something you'd like to say. I suggest you say it quickly, you might not get the chance if you decide to wait."

"Jesus..." John's eyes fell closed as he let out a hard breath, hands clenched tighter in his lap at the half attempt at humor.

"I talked to your doctor." John remarked in sullen annoyance, trying all too obviously to discard the previous comment, that is until Sherlock scoffed in amusement in reaction. John's gaze narrowed, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"I wouldn't be laughing, Sherlock."

A sick grin appeared on his face as he huffed from his place on bed, body stiffening in pain as he chuckled seemingly to himself.

"What else is there to do?"

John's hardened expression remained fixed on the shell of his best friend, concealing how appalled he was at the sight of his mental state.

"I'm sorry about Mycroft. I didn't realize he could be that much of a bastard."

The grin faded with no reply.

"After last night, I went to your doctor and talked to him about there being a way for me to-" He was cut off as he received a cold glare from the man in bed, almost a warning in relation to what his next words would be.

"-if I could be... your donor." He paused a moment to register Sherlock's reaction, which had not altered other than the slight intake of breath when he almost spoke but either couldn't or decided against it. His expression remained hard and intuitive, blue eyes narrowed as his racing thoughts seemed to cease and be still.

After a little over a full minute of silence, John carefully continued, returning the defensive expression with a calm one. "Since the liver is an organ that regenerates fully when downsized, I could be your donor and it wouldn't cost me anything. If the surgery were to succeed, everything would go back to normal."

It was Sherlock's turn to look disgusted, and he was absolutely appalled at the sick notion that anything could possibly be normal after this. John had enough of a basic knowledge of psychology to understand what Sherlock made of his own concept.

"Sherlock, no matter what you might think, there is hope for recovery for both you and Molly." He added quietly.

"You're not going into surgery." Sherlock stated with finality.

"Yes I am-"

"I need a blood relative, and you have a pregnant wife." Sherlock hissed back in a guilt attempt.

"Mary and I have already discussed it. The doctor told me the risk was higher, but if I would be willing to go into surgery at least once every two years and donate in order to keep you alive, then you would have a better chance."

"No-"

"Sherlock," John breathed heavily with the weight of what had already been decided. "if you're not going to fight for your own life, then I will. I don't know what happened to make you think you aren't needed but you have to forget that. Because I can't do this myself."

His shallow voice had reduced to a whisper as he pleaded with his best friend to find the will to live. And the glare from the other man had softened, riddled with a sense of understanding that had opened his eyes after days of knowing he would die, and now finding that another human being would give him the chance to live if he so desired it.

"And you would risk your life for a drug addicted rapist." Sherlock uttered softly through a cracked and used voice.

John sighed into his hands, running his fingers through his sandy hair before raising his eyes to meet the pleading gaze of the consulting detective.

"No, I would risk my life for my best friend. And I'm not risking my life." John finished with a heartfelt grin.

"You're agreeing to extensive surgery on a vital organ. I think it's safe to say there's a small chance it could prove to be fatal."

"Yes, of course there's a chance." John stated calmly with stern acceptance. "There's always a chance, but I couldn't live with myself knowing that I could have saved you, and not done anything."

Sherlock searched the other man's expression, finding a sincerity that matched his words in a way that surpassed all the judgments and accusations he had rightfully received in the previous days. He saw and felt forgiveness, feeling a portion of the weight was lifted from his chest.

"And you know," John continued. "Mycroft will have to live with that for the rest of his life."

Sherlock scoffed. "I hardly think that will be much of a chore for him. But I'm sure he'll find a way to cope after the operation."

"So you'll do it." John earnestly voiced. "You'll go into surgery."

A moment passed in silence as Sherlock's eyes fell to his hands, before he quietly responded with an upturned quirk of his mouth.

"Of course."

* * *

The next hour or so passed in a blur as the medical team was eager to get Sherlock into surgery as fast as possible, rushing him through a series of tests that only exhausted his fatigued body further in preparation for the coming anesthetic.

He ended up alone in a surgery room that smelled of disinfectant, lying on mat-like bed in the center of the small space. The machines surrounding him hummed softly as he waited for the eminent anesthesiologist to walk through the door and pull him under.

What he did not expect were the nurses to bustle through the door, pushing a bed with an already unconscious John Watson into the space next to his. Eyes glued to the limp army doctor that lay in his hospital gown, he figured it was only plausible to have the donor in the same room during the operation.

It was that moment that the amount of risk associated with his decision dawned on him, even more so than it had before. His thoughts could only focus on the one person that mattered most to him, and she currently lay alone in recovery with inflicted scars varnishing her body, at his hands nonetheless.

He wanted to think he had pleaded her forgiveness, fell into her room that night and showered her with apologies that would never suffice, but would have offered even the slightest bit of closure for her. Instead he had pathetically remained silent, gaped at her while she trembled with tears to tell him what he had asked hear, and he had offered nothing back.

The one thing that couldn't escape his thoughts was how she had described him when he had taken advantage of her. That after he had brutally damaged her body, this woman who held an innocent love for him, he had gone on to overtake her with gentle brushes of his lips and soft caresses of his hands over her bruised skin that had mocked that love. And then he had used her, breaking what remained of her spirit.

He couldn't lie there with the risk of death so close upon him while he still had the power to stand up, walk out of surgical unit and find Molly again, this time only to express the burning remorse that he had suffered against since the moment he had asked John to tell him what he did. And he had to tell her, at least once before he fell out of consciousness and put his fragile life in someone else's hands.

He had just begun the tremendous effort of lifting his weakened self off the sheets when two men in white lab coats entered the room, followed by a male nurse who immediately strode over to him securing the bed rail and fiddling with the slow beeping heart monitor.

One of the doctors who had both gone to speak in the corner would be his anesthesiologist, judging by his name tag and the fact that the nurse had begun to prepare the medication.

It took only minutes for the nurse to ready the prepared anesthetic and administer it into the plastic bag that injected medication through the IV on his wrist. Sherlock had struggled against it, protested with reason that he needed to see another patient in the hospital. He tried to rip away the IV, only to be restrained by both doctors and the nurse. He had almost finished her name in a last desperate attempt before he fell back helplessly on the bed, unable to move as his mind drifted in and out of consciousness, finally falling into the dark as the white light above him faded into blackness.

***Next update should be up quickly***


	17. Chapter 17

**Hello again, my lovelies! I want to say, I'm so touched by the depth and complexity of your jumpers… sorry no I mean the reviews. But honestly it's been such a pleasure to read the feedback I've received! I want to give a shout out to **SH Ships Sherlock, LDLFF, Renaissancebooklover108, megsterleigh, Crabbybubbles101, becgate, enygmaa, MRS. GLORFINDEL, Fragileimaginings, valleygurl25, Truly Sherlockian, TheGyrhan, SherlockWhovian, Graveofthefireflies, RelicWhite, Alice, elfmaiden4legs, Zeddy8, Schihigh, and Theatre 24. **Thank you for all of your support, you inspire me every day! Now, onto the chapter..**

Chapter 17

John gasped out a hard breath when he was lifted back into consciousness, cringing with a pain that struck every nerve, extending all the way to his fingertips as it originated from a place in his upper abdomen. Every sensory detail he could have picked up on was overwhelmed by the burning sting that engulfed his body, bringing all function to full stop.

He couldn't help but place it in his thought that waking up after surgery was not supposed to be like this. The pain was supposed to subside with some sort of sedative before he woke up.

Why hadn't they given it to him?

He forced his eyes open in hopes that he could find answers with a clear visual. What his vision found only raised more questions as far as it could reach past the searing pain.

He could make out the masked faces of a medical team crowded over him, working with urgent hands to bring him back under the effects of the medicine. It occurred to him that the anesthetic had worn off, bringing him out of the forced sleep before it was time.

A constant high pitched tone broke through the barrier in his ears, coupled with the bright lights stinging his eyes and the crowding of so many people. Why were they all here? The long tone grew ever louder as he began to hear the voice of the surgeon, whose rushed way of speaking sounded blurred and semi-audible.

And where was the voice coming from? John's eyes drifted to the right, finding the dark curls of the man in the gurney next to his. A medical team surrounded him as well, working vigorously, but not on the open operation that lay in front of them.

Something was wrong. Why had they stopped the surgery? John's panicked thoughts halted at the sight of a nurse readying a defibrillator. Every sight and sound finally brought him to a sick understanding of what had happened. The constant high pitched tone was emanating from the heart monitor at Sherlock's side that rung out a deafening sound, signaling that he had flatlined.

John's mind began to drift back out of the light of the room, the anesthetic starting to overcome his dreaded thoughts again. He was determined to stay awake as he watched the surgeon place the lead wires over Sherlock, starting the machine with an electrical charge that hummed loudly in preparation for the coming shock.

"Start at 120." The surgeon announced with a commanding stance as he hovered the lead wires over the lifeless man.

"Clear." He brought down the wires to Sherlock's chest, sending a spasm of electricity through his veins in hopes of restarting his heart.

There was no change to the constant tone, the line on the screen remaining as flat as it had started.

"Go to 270." The medical team quickly readied the machine in response, the lead wires again placed over the body.

"Clear." The detective's chest jolted as the wires touched him, the shock noticeable and prominent until he was unmoving on the gurney once again.

Without any change to the monitor, the surgeon prepared for the treatment one last time, nodding to a wide eyed nurse to start up the machine again.

"360." The defibrillator was brought up to a high frequency, the coming shock bound to at least produce a heartbeat.

"Clear."

The resonating electrocution sprung up his chest with an violent jolt that echoed through his limbs. The body then slumped back on the bed, unmoving and unaffected.

The surgeon sighed quietly, letting down the wires while he watched his lifeless form with tired eyes. "We've lost him."

The medical team quickly dispersed to rid the body of life support while a nurse checked the time of day, announcing the time of death at 2:29 AM.

John could only watch from the sidelines, his body almost completely conforming to the effects of the medicine. Breathing became forced and heavy as he tried to move and thrash, unable to as his mind was fading quickly into the familiar numbness. He had to stay focused.

_Stay awake. Keep your eyes open._

Sleep was taking him, eyelids drooping at their own accord while the fog in his mind only thickened as the seconds ticked on. He fell to his last resort, putting every ounce of faith he had left into his last pathetic attempt to perform a miracle.

John called out for him weakly from where he lay paralyzed, praying Sherlock would hear him as he whispered his name. This last exertion of his voice took all the effort had to give before he would surely go under in all his exhaustion.

He was on the edge of perception when he heard a single, weak heartbeat emanate from the monitor at Sherlock's side, and in the coming seconds it developed mercifully into a series of strengthening beats that echoed waves of relief to him. The medical team quickly surrounded Sherlock again as John finally breathed out consciousness, falling under the influence of the forced sleep.

* * *

Sherlock stood, alive and well in recovery, shrugging a white button down over his shoulders and fixing it over the bandaged scar on his left rib. He was to be let out of the hospital, just under a week after he had been revived from death of the surgery table.

John and Molly had since been released and sent home. John returned to his wife, and Molly to her own vacant apartment.

In the few days before John was released, he and Sherlock had argued endlessly over the notion that he had survived the surgery because John had said his name. Sherlock had bluntly refused to believe that he was revived by physically responding to John's voice while he was, in fact, dead.

They both knew it was completely implausible, but John found a lot of amusement in getting the consulting detective worked up over anything he could think of. He had after all, been drugged, hospitalized, and operated on within the span of a week. Needless to say he was still basically pissed off.

Mrs. Hudson had taken the liberty of bringing Sherlock fresh clothes from the flat which he gladly accepted, but only after he received more than an earful from the overly chuffed landlady who slapped him on the arm a number of times over the course of her frivolous rant.

He pulled the belstaff coat over his shoulders, relishing in the feel of being able stand up on his own. Although he found purchase in the fact that he was to be freed from Bart's, he knew exactly what was coming the minute he would exit the building.

He was pulled from his thoughts at the heavy knock on the door. "Sherlock?" John's voice was riddled with anxiety as he called through the threshold.

"Come in."

John entered the room hunched over and panting, looking more than a bit put out with his hair disheveled, hard breath coursing through his chest as though he'd been running. Sherlock smirked at the sight of him, quickly returned with a loathsome glare from the army doctor.

"I see publicity isn't treating you well." Sherlock inquired through a grin as he turned his collar up.

"Had a run in with the paparazzi." John panted, standing to his full height. "They're all waiting outside."

"Of course they are." Sherlock sighed as he fitted black gloves over his hands, taking to stuff them in his coat pockets.

"Shall we go?"

"You're ready, then?"

The consulting detective examined his familiar surroundings, more than eager to delete the experience from his mind, convinced he would never be able to. He nodded briefly to his blogger before he swept past, disappearing out the door. John trailed behind his friend as he strode towards the elevators at the end of the hall.

"In a hurry?" John questioned with a skeptical look to Sherlock's brisk pace. And there was no answer, only a quick glance back over stiff shoulders before he stopped to meet the elevator, pressing his thumb to the down button.

* * *

The elevator doors opened to the lobby, the army doctor stepping out behind the detective, who had hastened to dart from the small space when he was released from it.

John followed behind, brows furrowing in confusion as he practically had to jog to keep up. Sherlock strode towards the exit, almost reaching the door when he felt a hand firmly grasp his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" John relayed in a stern whisper. The man swung around, nervously glancing around the lobby before his eyes fell to John's bewildered expression.

"John," Sherlock began with wide eyes, the anxiety breaching through his cool demeanor. "In less than a minute, Lestrade is going to come in with his officers and have me arrested-"

"Oh my god…"John's eyes fell closed as he let out a constrained breath.

"You have to get to Mycroft. We both know that I deserve prison, and will go. But tell him that everything will be for Molly's sake."

John narrowed his eyes, rooted to the ground in his stiff stance, but even through his forced exhale he nodded in understanding.

Sherlock had just opened his mouth to speak when the lobby doors flung open, a group of uniformed men and their Detective Inspector entered without warning. Lestrade lagged behind while the officers immediately spotted their target and rushed to restrain him. With a withered expression, Lestrade slowly approached the scene as he reached into his coat pocket to pull out a pair of silver handcuffs.

All eyes in the room were wide on the consulting detective, whose arms had been roughly pulled behind his back in preparation for the cuffs. John stood by while the control was taken from him, visibly faltering as he used all his willpower to keep composure. And Sherlock didn't protest, entering into the authority's tight grasp without as much as a word.

His eyes were void of emotion, contrasting the previous days that were filled with the passion of his sentiment. All of that had vanished from his expression, replaced with an empty gaze that fell upon Lestrade. The detective inspector stepped forward, handing the cuffs to the officer who restrained him.

"Sherlock Holmes," He began in an authoritative voice, although there was a sense of guilt spread across his features. The hand cuffs snapped closed around Sherlock's wrists as he continued,

"You are under arrest for the sexual assault and the attempted murder of Molly Hooper."

**I would love to hear your thoughts! The more feedback I get, the faster the update will come..**


	18. Chapter 18

**I want to appologize for the lateness of this chapter, I've been unbelievably busy these past two weeks. For those of you who know what it's like to be a senior in high school with two jobs, I can relate quite a bit. I still love reviews, in case you were wondering! I got a record number of reviews in the last chapter and it made me love you all so much! I do appreciate everyone who takes time to read this, I really do! Enjoy this chapter, and please tell me what you think! It keeps me writing.**

Chapter 18

Lestrade's words struck a nerve in the consulting detective, a muscle in his jaw shifting while a look of defeat fell across his expression. John's first instinct was to step forward in protest, earnestly defending Sherlock as he always had in situations like this.

And he was keen to do so, about to advance when he remembered that this time, and only this time, Sherlock was guilty for the crimes he had been accused of. He watched as his friend was forcibly ushered towards the door, an officer at each arm.

As they neared the exit, John's feet moved forward, hurrying to catch up with the detective inspector, whose culpable gaze had fallen to the ground while he walked ahead of Sherlock and his men.

"Greg," John started as he reached the D.I.'s side, at the same time feeling Sherlock's eyes intent glare boring into the back of his head. Lestrade's eyes didn't move from the ground in front of him as he continued in his stride, john struggling to keep up.

"Greg, before you question him, you have to understand what he's just been through."

"We've got his medical records." Lestrade muttered heatedly.

"That doesn't-"

"We're not going to question him." He sighed, hastily stopping at the door with a hard grasp on the handle.

Sherlock's glare darted to Lestrade, narrowing bitterly in question while John looked as though he would murder the next person who came to him with bad news. He blew out a heavy exhale, forcefully pulling the door closed when Lestrade attempted to leave.

"What the hell do you mean you're not going to question him?"

"Listen, I know this is hard to understand at the moment, but you really just have to trust me." Lestrade earnestly explained before giving to sigh with a loosened grip on the door handle. "There's nothing else I can tell you. I'm sorry."

With that, the doors were pushed open to reveal a great mass of flashing cameras and loud voices all cramming in to get a shot of Sherlock Holmes, and they would get him, being escorted in handcuffs to a police car.

John was left at the door, watching his friend keep his eyes ahead of him as he was pushed past the shouting journalists and photographers, all of whom pelting him with questions to which he gave no reply.

And there was a deftness to Sherlock's stride, a quality that conveyed the wall he had consciously built, making up his protection against the people and their ignorance. Even so, he felt that their judgments were justified.

He was brought to the car and secured there, shoved unceremoniously into the caged backseat. He didn't spare the outside a second glance as the car sped off down the street, leaving the crowd of disgruntled news workers to their own devices.

The horde of people soon dispersed, leaving John standing upright on the curb. He was heavily inclined to flag down a cab and follow the police car to Scotland Yard. And he almost went on with it, but there were things that needed to happen first. Knowing full well that whether or not he could make those things happen would decide the outcome of all of this, he reluctantly hailed a cab, speeding off in the other direction.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes sat at his desk in brooding silence, deep in the confines of his thoughts as he was in his dimly lit office. Leant forward over the desk with his head in his hands, he hardly noticed the abrupt knock that sounded twice outside his door. Even at that, he quickly composed himself, sitting up straight with proficiency in an attempt to appear content.

The door creaked open, entering his assistant, a petite woman with bronze skin and dark curls that fell over her shoulders, which she pushed back in professional confidence as she looked up from her black mobile.

"John Watson to see you, sir-"She rang out softly before she met his tired eyes, recoiling slightly at his cold gaze.

"Send him in." He answered sharply, fatigue hidden in his hoarse voice.

She nodded in reply, quickly turning to exit the way she came. She was through the threshold when she hesitated, turning with a intuitive glance to him, not missing the dark circles under his eyes, or the deflated posture in which he sat with a warning look. "Are you alright?" She asked bravely, receiving a raised brow from the man in question.

He made it clear from his expression, and Anthea already knew this, how much he detested the sentimentality of the question. But he answered with a softened tone nonetheless.

"Fine. Send him in."

She then left with quiet steps, retreating without another word. The doorway remained vacant only for a moment, before the army doctor appeared looking sullen at best.

"Good morning, John." Mycroft uttered as the other man entered the room, halting decidedly in front of the desk with the stance of a soldier.

"I take it you already know what's happened?" John panted, obviously having confirmed his assumption long before his arrival.

"You'll have to be more specific," Mycroft replied bluntly with elbows on the dark mahogany and a knowing smirk. "There are a number of things that have happened as of late."

John sighed in annoyance, opening his mouth to speak-

"And if you are referring to my brother," Mycroft added with a smug expression. "I'm afraid my answer remains the same."

"Of course I'm referring to your brother, Who else would I come to you about?"

"Given the circumstances, I believe Ms. Hooper would be a popular choice at the moment."

"I don't understand." John quietly replied, almost as though he did not wish for the answer.

"I do hope you're aware of her predicament, John-"

"Of course I am."

"Then you should have assumed that his arrest was coming." Mycroft sighed as he stood from his chair, taking to pace behind the desk.

"You knew, then?" John inquired, heat rising in his voice.

"Obviously. He knew as well, you know. It's not a fact that either of us would have overlooked. I'm surprised you didn't pick up on it, being who you are."

"Well I was a bit preoccupied at the moment," John relayed with a warning edge to his voice, "I was going through surgery."

Mycroft stopped his pacing, gaze falling to the ground as he remained in composure. With his hands behind his back, he raised his eyes to meet the army doctor's hostile expression.

"I do appreciate your efforts-"

"No, don't thank me." John's voice reduced to a shallow whisper, "He didn't need me, he needed you."

After a moment filled with ear splitting silence, void of redemption from the army doctor's severe words, Mycroft slowly seated himself back in his chair with a withered look.

"I suppose you're right." He sighed in acceptance, bringing a hand to the back of his neck. "But that's not what you came to tell me."

"No it isn't." John replied almost immediately, briefly pausing to gather his thoughts. "He needs you at Scotland Yard. They've decided not to question him, and I don't know why."

"Of course they won't," Mycroft said. "I've made sure of it."

John visibly faltered, almost as though he had expected the response as it was. He inwardly scolded himself for taking precious seconds of his time disbelieve this man who would be the only person give such an order to Lestrade, the detective inspector who must have unwillingly complied.

"Do you honestly think that anything my brother has to say could help him now?" Mycroft sneered icily before his expression grew soft. "I assure you, it was all for his benefit."

"His benefit." John repeated in disbelief, voice rising heatedly as he continued. "You understand that you've lost him the right to even plead his case."

"There is no case, John. We both know what he's done. There's no changing it."

John remained silent, eyes narrowing with a tangible hate for the man at the desk in front if him. Mycroft saw this, and decidedly took it with full force, reaping the depth of his decision with what might have been sadness, but most certainly was not regret.

"You're going to help him." John finally said with a warning tint to his voice.

"You're not curious as to why I would ask the detective inspector not to question Sherlock?"

"I don't care." John stood his ground, his words stated with sullen finality. "I came here to deliver a message, and it's to tell you that anything and everything that you do to help him, will all be for Molly's sake."

Mycroft leaned forward with folded fingers under his chin, eyes glued to the door in front of him. He shook his head warily, looking less and less composed as time ticked on.

"I fail to see how anything I do could benefit her in any way. Assisting in his release from prison wouldn't exactly help their situation, would it?" Mycroft inquired rhetorically.

"I think that's for her to decide." John returned softly, unnaturally feeling that he should have some sort of reverence when he spoke of the poor woman, after all that she had endured.

Mycroft seemed to have the same line of thought, addressing her situation with a respect that John had not anticipated.

"I want you and my brother to be aware that most of the power in the indictment lies with Ms. Hooper, and whether or not she decides to press charges. This is a rare moment where the things I can change are very limited."

John exhaled with a fullness of understanding, and a changed perception of Mycroft's motives. "You need to tell him." He pleaded stiffly.

It was moments later that Mycroft reluctantly nodded with an acceptance that spanned over the decisions his brother had made, and just how much devastation he had caused in his unknowing actions. Even so, he still debated how unknowing his actions had been towards the little pathologist.

"Will you come?" John asked, pulling Mycroft from his thoughts with a step towards the door.

"I'll do what I can." Mycroft sighed as he stood from his chair, fixing his suit jacket and heading for the door himself.


End file.
